


On the Scattering of Ashes

by ricketyjukeboxer



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Dean, Castiel Acts Like Endverse Castiel, Comfort Sex, Endverse Castiel - Freeform, M/M, Modern AU, Shower Sex, Top Castiel, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Veteran Castiel, Veteran Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 08:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12229011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricketyjukeboxer/pseuds/ricketyjukeboxer
Summary: When the mother of a fallen army buddy passes away, Dean Winchester is called to fulfill a promise he made over a decade past. The task brings him to the childhood home of Marshall Hall, the best friend he lost in the war, and face to face with Cas Novak, the sergeant who saved his life.As they lay Marshall's mother to rest, Dean and Cas must confront their own romantic past cut short by the pain of loss and the guilt that comes with it.For the Destiel Modern AU Challenge. My prompts: A Quran salesman. Expired food. "I will remember this."





	1. The Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Dogsled for being my beta! Your help and encouragement was immeasurable.

It was a name that Dean hadn't seen in a long time.

 

As he held the small envelope loosely between his thumb and forefinger, he fought the urge to simply throw it away. The last time he'd seen that name was in big block letters, stitched carefully onto the breast of an army uniform. NOVAK, black, bold, but still somehow lost in the camouflage background of standard-issue desert combat colors. Dean recalled it vividly, as he could most moments in his life that were paired with the overwhelming emotion of shame. He could still feel the freeze, the way he hadn't been able to look anywhere but those letters on Cas' chest as they spoke in the Baghdad hospital the last time. If Dean had looked up and connected with the blue eyes he knew had been searching for his own, he would have fallen apart.

 

The name looked so different now, standing out in drunken loops scrawled on the upper left corner of a white envelope. The return address was in Kansas, not too far a drive from where Dean was sitting right then. The thought gave him pause as anxiety crawled its way up his back, making his fingers pinch, bending the corner of whatever was inside the missive. He suspected this had everything to do with the email he'd received two days prior.

 

After a moment, he tucked the envelope into the desk drawer and went outside to change the oil in his neighbor's Toyota.

 

@@@@

 

_2003._

 

_Basic had been Hell, but that wasn't news to any soldier who had come before or any soldier who would come after Private First Class Dean Winchester. After basic, deployment came swiftly, thanks to an accelerated, overarching assault in the Middle East. Dean had signed his papers knowing that--wanting it even. His dad had known battle and Dean wanted to know it too. That thirst had been the only thing to get him through high school and that thirst carried him through basic training and the news that he would soon be overseas in hostile territory, risking his life for his country._

 

_And when the moment came, the only thing he had the sense to fear was the goddamn plane that would take him to war. The panic sat deep in his stomach, churning and churning, rolling over itself and twisting his gut. But for all of that, he only puked once in the little in-flight courtesy bags._

 

_"Haven't eaten anything all day," Dean sputtered, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth and gasping for breath. "What the hell came out of me?" They hadn't even taken off yet and Dean was a mess._

 

_The infantryman next to him laughed. He laughed at him! "Bile," the man said and leaned over to offer his hand for a shake even though Dean had just been using his to wipe vomit from his chin. Dean took it with a firm grip. That was the moment he knew he was going to like Marshall Hall, a kind man from Kansas who had enlisted in the army to help pay for college. Marshall wanted to be a teacher, but he wasn’t going to make the return flight home with Dean two years later. "Good to meet you," Marshall said with the kind of smile that puts people at ease. "Looks like we're headed to the same suck."_

 

_"So long as it's suck on the ground," Dean groaned, hands now clenching the arms of the impossibly small airplane seat._

 

_"Now I know why you didn't choose the Air Force." Marshall laughed again and Dean felt the start of a smile curling his lips._


	2. Madeline

Dean received the email on a Tuesday. It took him by surprise, nestled in his work inbox amidst the endless emails about homeless veteran housing, outreach, and employment. The unfamiliar sender name stood out readily, and as he sat in his dusty office on the top floor of the Robert J. Dole VA Medical Center, he stared suspiciously at the computer screen. 

 

When he opened the email he expected to be greeted by some piece of spam clever enough to have slipped through the VA filters. What he found blindsided him: Madeline Hall had passed away quietly in her own home a day prior. The unexpected reminder of Marshall punched Dean in the gut and he pushed away from his desk forcefully, standing to face the window to his right. He needed to look anywhere but at that sinister piece of news.  

 

The VA grounds were beautiful, well-kept by the skilled hands of veterans, many of whom Dean himself had outfitted with the well paying job. Short green grass covered a large courtyard cut through by paved walkways between the hospital buildings. The old brick structures loomed along the edges of the grounds, labyrinths of offices on the inside, but giving the appearance of lovely, simple order on the outside. Dean liked that. He held onto the image tightly as he conjured Marshall's face in his mind's eye. His mother was gone and Dean couldn't believe it. Some part of him had always taken for granted that the woman would live forever, tucked away with the memory of the son she lost in the war, endlessly maintaining Marshall's childhood home as a monument to his life. But the ever advancing grind of age had taken her, and with her death came the obligation of a 13-year-old promise come to call. The memorial service was a week from now and Dean put in his request for some time off. He would go, there was no question. Still, he could not help but wonder if Cas would be there. 

 

@@@@

 

_ 2003. _

 

_ Marshall plopped down on a cot across from Dean and Cas. The two soldiers were sitting a respectable distance apart, but on the same bed. Dean was propped upright on a meager pillow, but only just, wilting into the afternoon heat. Cas, like always, was straight backed, official looking, the only thing revealing his weariness was the slight hunch as his shoulders pressed forward, his hands resting in his lap. _

 

_ Since they'd met, weeks ago, Dean and Cas had found countless reasons to be in each other's company. It was easy though, because Private Winchester stood out among his fellow soldiers as a rising star and Sergeant Novak rewarded clever, diligent work. No one suspected that there existed another layer to their companionship, none of which had even fully come to the surface yet, despite it boiling just beneath. But Marshall was quick to see the way Novak had been drawn to the fast-talking, hard-working, quick-thinking Dean Winchester.  _

 

_ Marshall said, "What's going on here?"  and the accusation was clear. Neither Dean nor Cas could take the threat seriously, especially when Marshall's face crumbled into a laugh. He could see what was going on between them, but only because he'd flat out interrogated Dean about it and gotten the sufficiently telling response of 'Shut your piehole.' _

 

_ "I'm bored. Hope I'm not interrupting anything." A pause. "Or maybe I do. Don't care. Entertain me." Marshall wouldn't have been speaking to them like this if they hadn't been alone in the tent. Novak was a sergeant, which earned him a certain degree of respect in front of the squad. But under the relative safety of canvas, especially with Dean there, Marshall could speak with Cas like an equal. Cas welcomed it.  _

 

_ "Entertain you?" Cas quipped dryly.  "I'm the ranking officer here, Hall. You entertain me." As comfortable as he was among these two, he still kept a side-eye pointed toward the entrance of the tent in case someone else entered.  _

 

_ Marshall snorted and gave a shrug. The stifling heat of the desert cloistered around them, but at least they were out of the sun. He'd come in as much for this refuge as he had for their company. "This tent shit reminds me of camping. Only in hell," Marshall offered by means of introduction to the afternoon's story. "I ever tell you about the time my mom chased a bear away from our camp?"  _

 

_ That got Dean's attention, otherwise usurped by the slow burn of exhaustion and stretched out days spent waiting for nothing. "In Kansas?" He grunted and Cas launched a frown at Dean. _

 

_ "Now you speak? I have been talking at you for the last half hour and all I got was a nod exactly 12 minutes ago." Cas' gravel voice betrayed a modicum of injury, no matter how flat he tried to keep his statement. And of course Cas would be counting the minutes; he hung on any input from Dean like it meant everything. He was older, higher ranking, and yet still somehow beholden to the man's opinion of the world. Cas shifted on the bed, sitting up a little taller as he continued to grouse.  "All I needed to do was chase a bear out from some camp in Kansas to get your attention?"  _

 

_ Dean gave Cas a sideways glance and the softest smile Marshall had ever seen. As quickly as that, Cas' ruffled feathers were smoothed and Marshall was able to continue with his story.  _

 

_ "I was six. We were camping at our usual spot, I told you about it before, up on that overlook?" The audience gave a nod of remembrance. "Anyway: bear wandered into camp. Scared the shit out of me. We'd never seen one, of course, and we hadn't strung up our food because--shit--there ain't any bears in Kansas, right?"  _

 

_ As Dean listened, Marshall noticed that Cas was watching him. The lack of Cas' attention didn't bother Marshall because he enjoyed watching them together. It reminded him of how he felt about his boyfriend back home and that was a good touchstone to have out here in hell. _

 

_ "Anyway, I started screaming because I saw it first. It was going for our cooler, ripping it up, but when I yelled, that thing wheeled and came right for me." He shuddered at the memory and Dean mirrored him because he was listening so intently. "Mom heard me, came out of the tent, and I don't know what--she started waving her arms and yelling at that thing. I never seen her so mad. So fucking mighty, you know?" His lips curled into a fond smile, gaze slipping briefly into the distance beyond Dean and Cas. "Bear ran off like a bigger, badder bear had come after it. I'll bet Mary was like that," Marshall finished and it startled Cas enough that he shot his eyes to Marshall. _

 

_ Only Marshall could casually bring up Mary Winchester without Dean sealing up tight like a crypt. "You think so?" Dean said so easily that it made Cas sigh with relief.  _

 

_ Marshall nodded. "Anyway, I love that spot. Wish I was there right now."  _

 

_ Later that night Dean and Marshall stood at their posts, guarding the outskirts of the base, their eyes scanning the horizon. Out of nowhere, Marshall broke the comfortable silence: "Dean. If I don't make it home, I want you and Cas to scatter my mom's ashes when she dies. On that overlook I told you about, where she chased off the bear. She doesn't have anyone else but me. Will you two do that for me?"  _

 

_ "Shut up. Do it yourself," Dean spat back, too rough to be a joke, too quiet to be anything but raw emotion at the very idea that any of them wouldn't make it back home. They were both silent for a little while after that until Dean finally said: "We will."  _

 

_ It had been the first time he'd ever spoken for Cas and the first time he'd ever considered that they might still be a 'we' after all this was over. Or that they were a 'we' right now. He swallowed thickly, eyes still panning over the horizon, searching for doom but thinking about home, a home that contained messy black hair in the morning and sleepy blue eyes at night.  _


	3. Waiting

Half way into a bottle of Jack on a Friday night, Dean pulled out a photograph he hadn't looked at in years. Eight soldiers stood squinting into the sun, sweating, miserable, teeth grit into ironic smiles. Dean exhaled a laugh through his nose and smoothed the pad of his finger over the beat up edges of the photo. There had been a time when he stared at this photo a lot and it didn't surprise him that the image remained hauntingly familiar, even now. If he shut his eyes, he could still feel the heat of the desert burning into his cheeks and making him sweat in places he didn't think possible. The Black Wings, proud squadron of the 3rd Infantry Division of the United States Army. 

 

In the photo, Sergeant Cas Novak stood stiffly to the side of his squad. At the last minute, Marshall had forced Dean to trade places and casually shoved him closer to Cas so that among all of those rough squints, Dean's eyes betrayed a glint of shock and adrenaline. Cas' face betrayed nothing, utterly controlled. He brought the photo close to his eyes to stare hard at that face, wondering if things like that should have been a clue that Cas would be able to let him go so easily. Dean always suspected that his feelings had run more deeply than Cas'. Years after he'd given up his last hope that Cas would ever reach out to him again, Dean would look at the man's face thinking how foolish it was to still be staring at this goddamn photo. How stupid it was to miss that moment in time when Marshall was still alive and Dean could imagine that they all were going to go home together: Marshall to his boyfriend. Himself and Cas to each other.

 

He drank some more, stared at the photograph some more, and made the decision to seek Cas out even if he didn't show up at the memorial service. Still, he couldn't bring himself to read the damn letter.

 

@@@@

 

_ 2003. _

 

_ War is full of waiting. Any military man can tell you that the motto of the US Army is actually “hurry up and wait," but Dean had never fully fathomed the truth of this joke until his back pressed against the rough clay wall of a long since abandoned structure for the millionth time this week. When skirmishes had started in the area, the locals fled to higher ground. The small village had become one of their posts and Dean spent many nights there with various members of the squad, watching and waiting.  _

 

_ They were charged with staying up all night, keeping a lookout for enemy movement. Normally, Dean would have dreaded such a task; something that stretched out for miles and ultimately made him feel useless. But tonight he sat next to Cas. While that fact alone made it worthwhile, it also made it difficult to do his job to the fullest. He wasn't worried though. Nothing ever happened out here, and he had fallen into an easy sense of security. Their enemies - a few miles away - were probably propped up against a similar structure, thinking similar things.  _

 

_ "Did you ever go camping with your father?" Came Cas' voice through the darkness. Dean was aware of how close they were sitting, but the velvet touch of the words in his ear made Dean that much more conscious of his companion's body heat. He flashed on the first time he'd heard that voice and what it had done to him. The shame he'd felt at the burst of lust dripping down his spine and pooling in his groin was not something he would easily forget. There was less shame in it now, but not by much.  _ Winchester _ , Cas had said, staring intently, sizing him up from head to toe with one steady gaze. Dean was lost.  _

 

_ "You mean did he ever chase off a bear like Marshall's mom? Man, our camp stories were never that exciting." They talked a lot during missions like this. Dean felt closer to Cas than anyone in the squad, save perhaps for Marshall, but that was a different sort of connection. Everything with Cas was next level electric, the hairs on Dean's arms standing at attention every time Cas was near to him. Neither had acted on the attraction, but Dean really didn't know how much longer that would last, not with this kind of daily proximity.   _

 

_ "Dad usually got drunk, Sammy and me played in the creek. Sometimes Dad yelled, sometimes he passed out so early that I had to build the fire and make dinner."  _

 

_ "I'm looking forward to meeting Sam someday," Cas offered and the sentiment struck Dean in the chest.  _

 

_ "Yeah?" He said, unable to keep the hope out of his voice.  _

 

_ A sound to Dean's left, Cas moving against the gritty earth, shifting. "Yes."  _

 

_ Even at night the desert's anxious heat assaulted Dean. The rising warmth from within didn't help the situation and he raised the back of his hand to wipe away droplets of sweat before they had the chance to get into his eyes. "He's stubborn as hell. You'll like him. You know--" Dean laughed, sudden memory flooding him. "Sam got so mad at dad one time that he stormed off into the woods. Dad wouldn't let me go after him, said he needed to see what it was like out there on his own." It was funny looking back until Dean remembered how afraid he'd been for Sam. "Kid stayed out there nearly all night. I went to look for him after dad finally fell asleep. He'd tripped or something. Cut up his knee. I should have gone looking for him sooner..." Dean's voice faded out into nothing more than a quiet exhale of breath.  _

 

_ "You're a good brother." Like Cas could feel the guilt rising out of Dean and needed to quell it.  _

 

_ The words were met with a snort. "Could have been better."  _

 

_ "Your father could have been better." But that was dangerous ground and they both knew it as tension reared up in the space between them.  _

 

_ Dean's muscles coiled, but relaxed when Cas put a firm hand on his shoulder and squeezed so hard it almost hurt.  _

 

_ "Not after…" But Dean couldn't finish the thought. They both knew he was going to say 'not after mom died.'  _

 

_ John Winchester could not have been a better father after that. So Dean simply had to be a better son and brother to make up for it. He'd taken that burden on and for the first time in a long time, he felt like someone could see that. Cas could witness his struggle. His eyes squeezed shut against the surprising rush of emotion and Cas' hand slid down his arm to the crook of his elbow. It left a shudder in its wake and even though Dean wouldn't be able to see much in the dark, he turned his head and opened his eyes. Cas had shifted close enough that Dean could make out the gentle curves of his face, the roundness of his mouth burnt into memory from stealing glimpses of it all day. He was so close. Close enough to... _

 

_ "Dean," a warning, an expectation, a plea. Then the crush of lips, the quick clutch of fingers carding up into Dean's hair to hold him fast and prevent escape. "Dean," Cas whispered into the minuscule space between them. _


	4. Getting There

Dean,

Long time. You got the email. We should talk before the memorial service. We both made that promise and I'm going to fulfill my end. I know you will too. Here's my address. Stop by anytime. I'll be here. - Cas

 

The words were so damnably casual, and fury built in Dean's chest, raging against the fact that Cas could write something like this to him, dry and business-like, while Dean was barely able to hold the paper steady as he read it. 

 

The handwriting sprawled across the page, insulting in its relaxed flow. Cas' hand hadn’t so much as shaken once. Some things didn't change, it seemed. Dean's feelings were more intense. Cas, even in writing, remained flawlessly composed. 

 

After waking up to the dull, nauseated haze of a hangover, Dean booked a hotel online, packed a bag, and set out for Holton, Kansas. Somehow, between the third drink last night and this morning, Cas' unopened letter had found its way into his jacket pocket. Now, in the parking lot of a Gas n' Sip, Dean sat reading it, hating the man and missing him so intensely that he had to take a few deep breaths to pull himself together. It had been 12 years since he'd seen Cas. It was true that Dean hadn't gone looking for him, but the reverse was true as well. Had Cas known where he was this whole time? How had he gotten his address? 

 

Wadding up the letter, he hurled it into the backseat. The problem with deep breathing was that it never fucking worked to calm him down. "Shit," he yelled at no one. "Shit." Again. 

 

Thirty seconds later, he twisted around in his seat to reach for the ball of paper, chasing it with his fingertips for a second before grabbing hold of it and towing it back up front. He smoothed it out and read it again before setting it on the passenger seat. Damn him if he hadn't pictured Cas sitting in that seat next to him. But it had always been brief before the memories filtered back to the night he'd been pulled out of the rubble and the night they'd left Marshall behind. It was still too much to overcome. 

 

He had three hours to Holton, a full tank of gas, and some Zeppelin in the tape deck. Even though anxiety gnawed at his stomach, there wasn't much he loved more than just putting wheels to the road and sailing into some unfamiliar town. It soothed him and freed his mind to wander to better things. 

 

@@@@

 

_ 2004. _

 

_ "It's here!" Private Bennington sprinted ahead of the truck rumbling in the distance. "It's finally fucking here! Dibs on first shower. You all heard me say it. Fucking dibs!"  _

 

_ Dean looked up from his task, stood upright before leaning an elbow against the handle of his shovel. The camp had been promised a shower tent going on months now, but rumor had it this latest shipment would actually bring the damn thing. Dean was just finishing up the job of leveling out some ground for it. Good timing.  _

 

_ Sergeant Novak loped purposefully toward the approaching vehicle, casting a brief glance Dean's way, constantly aware of his location. He kept the smile off his face, but Dean felt the warmth in his eyes before Cas could refocus on the delivery at hand.  _

 

_ The facility took a day to install, everyone working diligently to get it done. Dean passed on the rush to take an honest to god shower, content with continuing the sponge baths until the novelty of running water wore off in camp, meaning he could enjoy one alone. Cas, on the other hand, in a starkly rare instance of selfishness, pulled rank and took the first real shower any of them had had in months. Later, he would feel guilty about it, but he was too beholden to the feel of clean skin to resist his own desperation for it.  _

 

_ It was another week before Dean finally found himself willing to venture out at 3 in the morning to have a shower. He rolled out of his cot, gathered his toiletries and towel, and padded silently to the shower tent.  _

 

_ Inside, the light flickered, probably dim in the daylight but stinging Dean's dark-accustomed eyes. Two small sinks sat in what looked like a suitcase opened up on legs. Spongey pipes fed in and out of the bottoms and led into a mysterious curtained structure. The same pipes also ran into the two shower stalls with heavy-duty plastic bases. What looked to be PVC pipe formed a frame and supported tight plastic walls for privacy, but there would be no leaning against them. Slinging his towel over one of the hooks, Dean shrugged out of his standard issue sleepwear and ducked into the stall. At least there was enough room in there to turn around, lift his arms, and generally do a good job of getting clean.  _

 

_ The water from above started out tepid, but warmed up just enough to make it all right in the heat. The luxury of the running water splashing onto his forehead was enough to make Dean sigh, despite the only adequate temperature. He lathered up fast, wanting to enjoy the rinse for a selfishly long time while no one else was monitoring his use.  _

 

_ Soap sluicing off his skin, Dean stood there and enjoyed the sensation of gliding water. Cas had been crazy with anticipation for this feeling and it made Dean laugh to think of Novak as having any kind of real weakness. Of course, Dean didn't always see the way Cas looked at him, then it would have been obvious there were at least two.  _

 

_ Cas in the shower. Water against his skin. Dean's thoughts drifted and sparked a twitch in his cock that made him exhale a little too loudly. Cas had come into his head not thirty seconds before and already Dean's hand was kneading against his stirring length. He hadn't been truly alone in such a long time that this was the first opportunity to get off while not worrying about experimentally uttering, 'Cas' at the end and someone overhearing.  _

 

_ Within a few strokes, Dean was hard enough to get a handful of himself and he started to move with a purposeful pace. He needed this, needed to feel what it was like to come with Cas in his thoughts. Eyes shut, Dean tried to imagine in detail what it would be like. But every position flooded his mind, all at once, and he was unable to keep his thoughts from racing wildly to every possible configuration of Cas fucking him. With the efficiency of a true nomad who'd never really had time to himself, Dean grew close enough so that the moan of Cas' name that escaped his lips only sent him further into passion, unafraid of the implications. _

 

_ "Yes?" Came Cas' voice. Dean startled out of his revelrie and jumped back, the slick vinyl squeaked, protesting against Dean's backside. _

 

_ "What the hell, man? Cas!" Shock currently winning out over humiliation and logic, Dean dropped his eyes between them to see that Cas, stunning as he was, was completely naked in front of him. No one spent a lot of time fully naked at base camp, so even though they'd seen each other change, that hardly counted the way this did. Cas' body was built of the kind of muscle people actually used to do work. He was sculpted by his duties and devotions. His thighs were thick: a runner, a mover. Dean had imagined they'd look just like this based on how they'd felt underneath his hands during many a clandestine make out session.  _

 

_ When he finally realized he'd been staring at Cas' dick for the last fifteen seconds, Dean lifted guilty green eyes to meet Cas' unwavering gaze. "Be quiet," Cas commanded and stepped forward to fold him into a bruising kiss. Fire and anxiety rolled through Dean's belly and he made a strangled cry at the sensation of his cock trapped between them. Cas made it all the better by hitching his thigh up between Dean's.  _

 

_ When Cas relented to drop his mouth to Dean's neck, he answered the confused utterance from moments before. "I was watching you sleep and saw you leave. I knew where you were going."  _

 

_ "Dude," Dean managed to gasp. "That's still weird."  _

 

_ But it was clear from the low, amused laugh that huffed against Dean's neck, Cas had no intention of stopping the habit of watching him sleep. Cas' teeth punctuated that fact and Dean's fingers dug into Cas' waist.  _

 

_ Each kiss layered onto Dean's skin was a little lower than the last. It didn't take Cas long to make his way down onto his knees. He was a man on a mission and Dean was merely struggling to keep up.  _

 

_ "Oh..." When Cas took Dean into his mouth, Dean's knees went weak, but Cas caught his hands against the sinking ass to bolster him upright.  _

 

_ Releasing Dean's cock with a lewd pop and the barest of smirks, Cas peered up at him. "Don't fall," he offered before sucking Dean down again,  determination doubled. The only response Dean could muster was a whispered string of expletives. _

 

_ Instead of leaning back and risking an embarrassing fall through vinyl walls, Dean hunched forward, bracing his hands on Cas' shoulders. "Cas, I…" with every intention of a fair warning dying on Dean's lips, he came down Cas' throat who took it in stride with a moan. He tried to stay quiet, but was only moderately successful.  _

 

_ Never wanting to come back up out of this haze, Dean sunk down to floor of the shower with Cas and kissed him. "God, Cas," Dean whimpered, and though he was humiliated to hear his own voice like that, Cas responded to it with increased fervor. It helped that their middles connected in a way that captured Cas' erection between them and when Dean started to move, he realized what kind of power he had over his sergeant right now. It went straight to his head.  _

 

_ "You like that?" Wickedly.  _

 

_ Cas' mouth was half-open, eyes half-lidded, and he nodded, making a needful sound that threatened to tear Dean apart. Dean took the opportunity to admire Cas' uncontrolled expression. Writ across it was every emotion Dean hoped was equal to his own; a matched set. As Cas tumbled over the edge into a gasping mess, Dean took that in too. _


	5. It'll Do

When Dean made the connection that Cas' return address on the envelope was less than a five minute drive from the motel he'd blearily booked online that morning, his stomach turned to acid. He gawked at the woman behind the counter of the It'll Do motel. Her frizzy brown hair was pulled back with a scrunchie straight out of the 90s and her eyes had the kind of 1,000 yard stare that said she'd been doing this for a while and it wasn't exactly her life's calling. 

 

"Just up the road?" he repeated her exact words as she sketched out a little map for him that revealed far too direct a route into Dean's past and everything that had gone wrong with it. 

 

"Yeah, real close. Got a friend who lives in that apartment complex. Little sketchy. You a drug dealer?" She joked, but the squint of her eye belied a glimmer of seriousness to the question. Did she want to buy?

 

Dean didn't have a response for that aside from a slack-jawed shake of his head. She slid a room key across the table and Dean grasped the familiar klunky weight of the logo'd keychain in his hand. At least there was that. He hated keycards, preferring the solid jangle of a key in his pocket and the heavy turn of a lock. 

 

She continued with her welcome speech: "You can park wherever you like. Little grocery store up the road and a few restaurants farther into town. Don't get the Turducken Slammer, no matter how good it may sound. Trust me on that one. Ice machine around the corner. Check out's at noon, but you're here for a week so you don't have to worry 'bout that for awhile, do you?" She glanced him up and down. "What are you doing in town for a week?" 

 

Even though he'd expected the question, he wished she'd skipped it. With his mind still on Cas' dangerously close proximity, Dean pressed the pad of his thumb against the sharp ridges of the key until it hurt. "Funeral," he decided on because it was the truth, albeit a partial one. That seemed to sum up not only Dean's purpose here, but his life too. He revealed just enough to get by with neighbors, coworkers, friends, lovers--even Sam. Dean was a half-truth to everyone in his life and he saw no reason to reveal more than that to this curious woman before him. 

 

What would she even think if Dean told her he was here to confront the love of his life? Something he'd realized way too late, so that now maybe all that was left was lingering anger and resentment. What would she say to Dean telling her that nothing had ever been the same after Marshall was killed and Cas pulled Dean out of the rubble in the middle of a real life hell? What could ever be said about that? Dean would like to know because then maybe he and Cas could have said it to each other.

 

"Oh. Sorry for your loss." Politely. 

 

With a dismissive nod, Dean scooped up the pizza delivery coupons attached to the motel receipt and headed to his room. He needed a shower and some time to think.

 

@@@@

 

_ 2004 _

 

_ "You love him," Marshall said in between grunts. They were digging again. Why the fuck was so much of serving your country done with a shovel? How much farther down into the Devil's asscrack did they need to go?  _

 

_ Dean scoffed but didn't dignify the accusation with a verbal response. The word 'love' hit him like a clean right hook to the hinge of his jaw, sending him reeling and unsteady. They'd been talking, shooting the shit as they trudged through a crappy work assignment. Had they even been talking about Cas?  _

 

_ With a sharp schkt, Marshall planted the shovel into the sandy earth, punctuating his opening volley. "I'm serious, Winchester. You love him." When Dean raised his attention to take in the determined stance of his compatriot, he knew he was in trouble. There was going to be no avoiding this conversation, stranded in the middle of nowhere with an order to get this irrigation trench dug. Dig until you're done, Cas had said without mercy, all sergeant when it came to the mission.  _

 

_ "Marshall."  _

 

_ "Dean," firmly back.  _

 

_ They stared at each other for awhile longer until Dean finally broke. "So?" Not a denial, just a helpless shrug. It was hard to think about meaning when they were all so far away from home. More importantly, far away from the reality of Sam and his father. Out in the desert, it was easy to think that the men around him were the only people in the universe. Us and the enemy, that's it. The second Dean stepped off the plane back in Kansas, he'd be out. He'd be a gay man and Sam would know because in what universe could he have someone like Cas Novak and not introduce him as HIS to everyone who stood still long enough? _

 

_ "So!" Marshall gaped, dumbfounded by Dean's lack of articulation. Two beats and he went back to digging, tight shoulders, roughly shucking dirt farther than he had been before.  _

 

_ "Why does that piss you off!?" Now it was Dean's turn to be confused and he took a step forward to tilt his head, attempting to catch Marshall's eye.  _

 

_ "Because I know what you're thinking! I know exactly what's going on in that emotionally constipated little brain of yours and it has everything to do with your dad." Marshall's big hands gripped the shovel handle so hard his knuckles were going white and it gave Dean something to focus on while Marshall let it all out. The mention of his dad was a harder punch than accusing him of loving Cas.  "He's an asshole, Dean, and if he's going to hate you for being gay, then fuck him. It's 2004, for christ's sake! And from what you've told me about Sam? You're selling him real short by thinking he'd care one way or the other if the person you love has a dick or not. And it pisses me off because you're not a coward, but you're fucking acting like one."  _

 

_ And there it was. Marshall's shoulders sagged, burst of rage spent, replaced by nothing but pity as he looked at Dean. It was harder to take than the fury and Dean got back to work. They were quiet until the ditch was dug. _


	6. Gin and Juice and Cas

Was that the backbeat of Snoop Dogg's Gin and Juice rattling Cas Novak's front door? With eyebrows knit together in utter confusion, Dean stood on a small cement stoop, double-checking the address on the envelope of Cas' letter. A match, for sure. Apartment 3. But Cas listened to classical, impossibly dusty old folk music, Elvis, and at a respectable volume always. 

 

Dean leaned closer, angling his ear to the door just as a woman's laughter burst loudly from the other side of it. He jumped back as the door swung open. Dean registered three people crowded together, exiting the apartment, two women draped over a man in the middle. The volume of the song and the female laughter doubled with no door to keep it in check, causing Dean to grimace and take yet another step back, right off the porch. 

 

"Shit," he murmured as he stumbled, lost balance, and started to fall. The firm grip that caught him by the front of his shirt steadied him lightening quick and his startled eyes lifted to connect with a painfully familiar gaze. 

 

The crinkles around Cas' eyes had multiplied in 13 years, the lines of his forehead had deepened with age and something heavy hung around the edges of his expression. In the army, everyone's hair was cropped close, face clean shaven. But now, Cas' dark hair hung shaggy against his forehead and curled out from behind his ears. It looked like he hadn't shaved in a couple days and maybe hadn't bathed either. Despite the changes and the ragged state of his hygiene, Cas was beautiful, and Dean fucking hated him for it. 

 

He continued to stare with the kind of unabashed focus that came from being surprised into unthinking silence until Cas released him, setting him right. 

 

"Hello, Dean," the fathomless voice drew a thumbnail sketch of the way Cas used to greet him when there was no one else around. To his credit and Dean's relief, Cas did not look unfazed. Leaving Dean to work through his lingering shock, Cas turned to the women and treated them with offhanded sweetness. "You two are the best. Beautiful. See you in another life, am I right? Lovely." He whispered more platitudes as he kissed each of them on the cheek and sent them on their blissed out ways.

 

"What the hell, man?" Dean had regained his sense and shot a disbelieving look over his shoulder to watch the girls drift down the road like they had no idea where they were going. "Both of them?" Because the lowdown was obvious here and illogical jealousy blossomed at the base of Dean's skull, swelling into a throbbing headache. 

 

Cas laughed, letting himself fall gracefully back against the frame of the door, arms across his chest, the irritatingly laid-back Snoop Dogg still bass dropping in the background. It hadn't taken Cas long to regain his chilly composure.  "I would have thought you of all people would remember I'm up for anything when it comes to sex, Dean." 

 

Dean's jaw tightened so hard that it sent a stab of pain down his neck. 

 

"Come in," Cas pushed himself off the door frame and turned with fluid grace. Hand over his head, he gestured for Dean to follow him. All of his movements were big and loose, just like the loopy scrawl of his handwriting. "Move the pizza boxes anywhere, sit down." 

 

"Can you shut that off?" Dean snapped, stopping the swanning host in his tracks. Dean meant the music and Cas picked up on that immediately, padding over to turn off the stereo with nothing more than a bemused expression on his face. 

 

They didn't have a dynamic anymore, not for over a decade they hadn't, but Dean's sharp loss of cool and Cas' concerned acceptance mirrored memories of their most intimate moments when Dean was not a soldier and Cas was not an officer. The precious few times when they were on leave during their deployment, exploring an unfamiliar city together, were the times when their relationship could be just that, a give and take rather than something cloaked in the pantomime of a private and a sergeant. 

 

The silence swelled to fill the space the music left and Dean wished he hadn't requested that it go away. 

 

"Can I offer you anything?" Cas broke the awkward quiet. Instead of waiting for Dean to do it, he scooped up the debris of pizza boxes and set them aside before sinking into the couch. He stretched over the arm and picked up the stub of a joint, brought it to his lips and lit the end of it with a lighter he produced out of seemingly nowhere. 

 

"Are you getting high?" Dean was unable to focus on any one instance of absurdity here because everything was assaulting: the joint, the mess, the women, the demeanor. Cas was completely different, frayed around the edges, barely a ghost of the Cas he'd known. It had never occurred to him that the Cas Novak he'd known in Iraq hadn't gone on existing after the last time he saw him in the trauma hospital in Baghdad. 

 

"I'm getting high-er," Cas corrected with a smile, tucking the lighter back in his shirt pocket. 

 

The smell of weed made Dean shut his eyes. It wasn't altogether unpleasant if only because it reminded him of a particularly good party with Sam after he'd gotten back from a later deployment. He'd stayed in the army for years after he'd been able to return from his injuries. It was a life he could understand, could lose himself in, because if he lost focus for even a second his thoughts would inevitably turn back to Marshall's death and the unfillable emptiness both his and Cas' absence had left in the center of him. 

 

"Sit down," Cas tried again and without thinking, Dean sat like he was following an order. When he opened his eyes again, Cas was grinning at him because he'd picked up on that too. "Still got it." 

 

Dean's jaw clenched again and he turned his head to take in more of his surroundings. The place was a mess and smelled like sex. The chair he was sitting in had seen better days and barely kept him up off the floor. 

 

"How did you get my address?" Of all the questions Dean could have started off with, that was the one that came out of his mouth. 

 

"The lawyer found it for me." A pause. "You work at the VA?" Apparently this lawyer had told him more than just Dean's address.

 

"Yeah. Yeah, I help vets find jobs, housing, get back on their feet." Spoken not without pride, but Dean felt immediately uncomfortable when he caught how Cas' expression softened at this. "It's all I could do after I fucked up my back in Oh-Eight." A shrug. 

 

Cas took another long hit off of the joint and his next words were exhaled around a mouthful of smoke. "What happened there?" 

 

"Why did you write me that letter?" Dean countered, ignoring Cas' question. He didn't want to talk about his service after their shared deployment. None of that mattered right now. 

 

"I didn't think it was a good idea for us to see each other for the first time in 12 years at Madeline's memorial service." Cas had no problem jumping to wherever Dean wanted this conversation to go. He shrugged. "Thought we should get it out of the way before that." 

 

"Get it out of the way," Dean snapped, snatching up that phrasing and letting it gnaw at his eardrums. Cas' chuckle didn't help the words settle any better and only stoked his anger. "You know what? We're done here." He couldn't sit there and take this snide, wasted version of Cas. 

 

Gathering himself up he walked back the way he'd come in, half-expecting Cas to try and stop him, Dean didn't know if he was relieved or devastated that no attempt came before he slammed the door behind him. 

  
  


@@@@

 

_ 2004. _

 

_ There wasn't much to enjoy about deployment outside of the overarching satisfaction Dean got out of service. This was what he was supposed to be doing and he did take pleasure in that. But as for things to look forward to, Iraq didn't have many. When the order came down to assist a local village with digging a well, Dean had to laugh. More digging. But his chagrined annoyance was quelled when Cas pointed out that this digging was in a small village among the people they were there to help.  _

 

_ When they unloaded from the trucks the next morning, Dean saw first hand the mix of reactions from the people. Many were receptive, a shiver of grateful expectation humming through the gathering. Some stood off to the edges, eyeing the soldiers with caution. But it was the children who truly caught him off guard, surging forward in an excited flurry. Dean only had a few moments to interact with them before he was swept up in the arduous task at hand. _

 

_ Later that afternoon, the sun beat angrily down upon them, and the work slowed to a trickle. His fellow squad members leaned against the trucks, seeking their meager shade. Dean joined them, unable to tolerate much more work without a water break. Sweat had plastered the thick fabric of his fatigues to every inch of his body. The showers would be busy tonight, but Dean was fully prepared to stand in line for one.  _

 

_ The mood of the group was exhausted, and paired with the gritty resolve of a job only half done, a silent pallor cast over them. As usual, in the quiet spaces, Dean's eyes sought Cas, who was nowhere to be found.  _

 

_ Pushing himself off his perch on the hood of the truck, he sauntered forward to look for him. The village was small and it didn't take long for Dean to round the corner of a small hut and find Cas kneeling in a circle of about nine children, handing out candy. It was so rare to catch Cas smiling that the sight of him beaming stopped Dean in his tracks with a skid of sandy grit beneath his boots. Amidst the clamor of excited children no one noticed the sound, and he was able to continue to observe unseen.  _

 

_ Cas spoke to them in a language they understood and it struck Dean that he hadn't known that Cas spoke anything other than English. As much as he'd learned about the man, there was a chasm of the unknown left to cross. Witnessing this got Dean a little closer.  _

 

_ No matter how rowdy the children became or how much they begged for more, Cas' blissful patience and his candy supply seemed eternal.  _

 

_ Finally, Cas stood up and the children dispersed, stampeding past Dean in an unruly storm. It was then that Cas noticed him standing there, watching. Cas didn't say anything, just offered a sheepish shrug as he passed Dean to rejoin their group.  _


	7. Midnight Rider

Lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, knee kicked up, sagging to the right, Dean scrubbed his hands over his face and the beginning of some 5 o'clock grit. It was much later than 5pm, though. For dinner, he'd ignored the front desk lady's advice and ordered the Turducken Slammer at Biggerson's. He would not ignore her advice again. The abomination still sat heavily in his stomach. But it could have been more than just the food. 

 

The interaction with Cas earlier today weighed on him, forcing Dean to recollect all the times he'd thought he'd seen the real Cas in Iraq. There had been such a profound desire to help people, to give hope, radiating out of Cas' every action. It had shaped Dean's love for him. Now the lingering emotions he still felt for Cas didn't fit and left him feeling at odds with his own history, his own skin. 

 

From the chipped and wobbly nightstand, the red glowing numbers ticked over from 11:59 to midnight. Dean had nowhere to be the next day and he wished he hadn't come to Holton so early. More of his foolish ideas, thinking that he'd want to spend more time with Cas once they reunited. From their brief encounter, Dean realized that either the Cas he had loved was long gone, or else he had never existed in the first place.

 

Rolling upright, Dean hooked his legs over the edge of the bed and made contact with the floor, a sudden impetus for movement invigorating him to rise. Grabbing the keys from the nightstand and his jacket from over a chair, he headed out to the car. Wheels to the road: he had to drive. 

 

For all of Dean's experience in life, it didn't surprise him when he ended up driving past Cas' apartment building. Around the block, one more time, two more times. This was Dean's own special brand of futility. Part of him had no intention of pulling in and knocking on number 3. Part of him had every intention of standing on Cas' front porch and demanding to know if the Cas of his memories was still in there. 

 

Each time he rolled past, Dean craned his neck to get a glance at Cas' door, half-expecting more women to come stumbling out of it, or worse, into it. What was Cas' life now and how had he ended up in Marshall's home town? Even though Dean had made the split decision to write Novak off earlier today, there he was, trying to analyze his life. Four more times around the block, looping like a stalker down side-streets to make one more pass.  Just one more, he promised himself. Cas' light was still on. 

 

When Dean's headlights caught on a person standing in the middle of the road, he slammed on the brakes, launching himself forward painfully against the steering wheel. Both hands gripped it tight as the sound of screeching tires dissipated into the night and everything went deathly quiet save for the sound of his own hard breathing gasping in his ears. 

 

Cas had his arms folded across his chest, one hip jutted to the side, head tilted to the opposite side. Already, Dean could recognize it as his natural stance. Dean shut the car off and launched himself out of it, anger coming quick on the heels of fear. 

 

"Are you trying to get killed!?" Dean cried, hands raised at shoulder height as if he planned to grip and tear down the very atmosphere between them. "What the fuck are you doing in the middle of the road!?" 

 

"What are you doing driving by my apartment eight times?" Came the reply that Dean had very much been hoping to avoid. Cas didn't seem angry or shaken by his near death experience. Dean took a second to look at how close the grill of the Impala had come and the space of mere inches struck a sickening shudder down his taut spine. He could smell the lingering burn of tires on asphalt. 

 

Chalk this up to the umpteenth mistake he'd made on this trip so far. He couldn't even answer Cas' question. Shaking his head, he turned to get back in the car. 

 

This time, Cas stopped him with a hand darted out to catch Dean's wrist tightly; so tight, in fact that it yanked Dean back around to face the man. "Dean. We need to talk." And if it had to be at 1am in the middle of the street, Cas looked fully prepared to make that happen. He didn't move an inch or let his gaze waver from Dean's face. 

 

"Are you still high?" Dean couldn't help the barb. He didn't know why he was being petty about that, since he had nothing against drinking or smoking the occasional joint, but picturing Cas in this constant state of lackluster haze made his throat clench. 

 

"I was out for a walk, fresh air, I'm as sober as you're gonna find me." Which wasn't exactly a promise of sobriety, but it was sufficient for Dean to grant a nod. "And if you're going to stalk someone, I would suggest a less--recognizable car." Cas released Dean's wrist so that he could touch the hood of the Impala. 

 

To see Cas' fingers graze over the shiny black lines of his Baby made Dean's mouth go dry. The way he touched it could not be categorized as anything but a caress. "Your dad's car. I always wanted to see it. Do you remember how you used to talk about it? Like she was your girlfriend back home. I wanted to meet my competition." As sad as Cas' voice sounded hanging in the air, Dean still felt mocked. Cas' nihilism seeped into everything about him and Dean wanted to shake it out of him. 

 

Looking away, embarrassed by the intensity of his own stare, Dean gestured to the driver's seat. "I'm going to park her and then we can talk." 

 

"Can I have a ride?" Cas chuckled. 

 

"It's less than 30 feet." 

 

Cas shrugged. "I've always wanted to ride in her. It's been so long, I'm going to seize any opportunity I have. Also, I don't trust you not to take off." 

 

That last part was fair and Dean acquiesced, unlocking the passenger side door after he got in. He tried not to think about Cas in the place he'd pictured him so many times. Not 20 seconds later, he was pulled off the road and parked. Neither of them made a move to get out of the car. 

 

"Can we talk in here?" Cas shifted on the bench seat to face Dean and Dean could feel his movements resonating beneath him in the seat. "I don't want to get out yet."  

 

The shard of honest vulnerability cut into Dean and eased his muscles, echoing true for him too. Slowly, his hands came off the steering wheel and landed in his lap. "Okay." 

 

The space inside of the Impala became suddenly small and Dean rolled down a window to gather some of the cooler night air into his lungs. This felt too much like waiting in silence together on watches over a decade ago. He had not anticipated the intensity of his emotions or the sense of loss that sharpened in his limbs so hard that he could feel them starting to shake as he sat next to Cas. 

 

"I didn't mean to sound like I just wanted to get you out of the way. I've been taking care of Madeline for a long time and quite frankly--I know there won't be a lot of people at her memorial service on Tuesday. She kept mostly to herself. So I knew you weren't going to be able to avoid me very well and I just--" Cas' words got lost in themselves and he propped his elbow up on the seat so he could rest his cheek in his hand. 

 

"You've been taking care of Madeline?" Cas' location suddenly made sense and Dean felt the beginnings of humiliation creeping up his shoulders, boring into his neck and the base of his skull. 

 

"Yeah." 

 

"How long?" 

 

Cas rubbed his hand over his hair, his discomfort filling every claustrophobic inch of space in the car. "A while. It doesn't matter. What I'm trying to say is that I'm glad you're here, but I didn't want you to be unprepared for the service. So we needed to talk." 

 

Dean's mind was racing again and he tried to pace himself. But the most important question sifted promptly to the surface. "Was she as perfect as Marshall said she was?" 

 

Cas was so quiet that Dean darted a cautious glance his way to catch him nodding softly, eyes glinting with the start of tears. They never fell, just faded as Cas sucked in a breath. "Marshall's boyfriend was pretty great too. He had phenomenal people in his life. Ben moved to California. He won't be able to make it out for the service, sadly." 

 

The way Cas spoke about the people in Marshall's life made Dean wonder just how long he'd been here. But the question died on his lips when Cas let his head tilt back against the window, settling into a near sprawl along the Impala's front seat. Cas sagged and gave a groan. "You wanted me sober, but I don't think I can do it much longer, Dean. There's a joint with our name on it inside if you want?" 

 

"What happened to you?" Dean made no move to get out of the car. 

 

Cas laughed, full-throated. The question must have been the funniest thing he'd heard all day because he chuckled for so long after that Dean thought it would be his only response. Finally, Cas shook his head. "Nothing. Everything. Life. I don't know. I finished my commitment to the army and left.  Didn't see much point in continuing to live like a soldier. So here I am." Spreading his hands to either side, he presented himself with a smirk before dropping his hands into his lap with a slap to his thighs. 

 

"Why did you leave the army?" 

 

"Why didn't you?" Cas came back quickly before waving his hands. "No, you don't have to answer that. I just couldn't be there anymore. That mission--that battle--" Of course Dean knew which one Cas was talking about: the one that had killed Marshall. Cas obviously spent a lot of time dampening his emotions because as soon as one started to rise, Cas started searching in his pockets for a hidden stash. When he came up empty handed, he offered Dean a toothy grin. "Are you in or out, Winchester?" The need for muted reality won out over wanting to stay in the car with Dean and Cas reached for the handle. 

 

"Out," Dean said, digging in his heels. "But--" 

 

"But," Cas mimicked quietly, licking his bottom lip. 

 

"But we should get together tomorrow. A beer? Are you free? Where's good here?" 

 

"I'm always free," Cas smiled and this time it reached his eyes, lighting them up with something familiar, some unspoken 'for you.' It made Dean's heart catch in his throat. "Where are you staying? Let me think of something close." 

 

"I'm over at the It'll Do." 

 

That caught Cas' attention and he paused, giving Dean a surprised look. "And you drove here? You're getting soft. That's a 10 minute walk." 

 

It was Dean's turn to offer an offhanded shrug, unwilling to admit to the fact that he was getting soft, with a bum knee and a sore back and a plethora of other old service injuries that had slowed him down over the years. 

 

"We'll go to Lloyd's. It's just up the road. You may have driven by it while you were circling the block tonight." 

 

Instead of bristling at that, Dean laughed. The sound made Cas lean toward him and Dean eased even more, for a moment feeling like he could sink into this as easily as he had the first time. 

 

"Tomorrow then," Dean said. 

 

"Tomorrow. 7 o'clock?" 

 

"19:00 sharp," Dean corrected.

 

"I don't really do sharp anymore, Dean. But I'll try." Cas had leaned even closer, elbow on his thigh, coming in to Dean's side of the Impala's bench seat. His voice had smoothed into a rich lull and Dean could feel the spark building. 

 

"Tomorrow," he said firmly and put his hands on the steering wheel, ready to go, even if this conversation had cushioned the earlier blow of meeting a changed man this afternoon. Cas pulled back with a nod, only partially disquieted by Dean's rejection of whatever had been building in the car. 

 

When the door shut behind Cas, only then did Dean turn to watch Cas walk back into his apartment.


	8. Wild Horses

The next day was spent tooling around the little town. He'd slept in by his standards, but even waking up at 10am gave him plenty of time to kill before his--what would he call it? Meeting? Gathering? Date?--with Cas that evening. A long shower and a leisurely breakfast reenergized him and left him ready for an afternoon walk. 

 

He thought of this endeavor as a fact finding mission. Cas had said that not many would be coming to Madeline's memorial service, that she'd kept mostly to herself, but Dean had the inkling that in a town this size, people still knew about her. More to Dean's own shame, he also hoped that they knew about Cas. 

 

Dean had a knack for starting up conversations with strangers. He was well-suited to his job at the VA, being able to elicit information from people that they wouldn't otherwise be willing to share. Dean knew how to listen and he knew what questions to ask. More importantly, he knew how to reveal those little half-truths about himself that made people feel close to him without really exposing anything. 

 

Mid-way through his walk, he found himself on the grounds of the local hospital. It was a pretty campus and reminded him of his own back in Wichita. That was the comforting thing about hospital grounds: they all felt the same. 

 

The afternoon had been blessed by good weather and people were outside eating their lunches, patients getting fresh air, visitors taking a break from whatever trial awaited them inside. After helping himself to some free coffee in the lobby, Dean found a bench and perched on it, waiting for the inevitable. 

 

"Hello, young man." As expected, someone sat next to him on the bench and struck up a conversation. "Did you serve?" The elderly woman gestured to Dean's t-shirt that proudly displayed the US Army logo. 

 

Dean gave her a friendly smile and a nod. "I did, ma'am. Three tours. Well--two and a half, but who's counting?" 

 

"Thank you for your service," she beamed in return. 

 

Dean never really knew how to feel about that phrase. He appreciated it and he knew that people always meant well by it, but it still made him feel a little anonymous and 'other.' He'd chosen to serve, done his job, and come home. So many thanked him for his service when they found out he was a veteran and yet he'd worked with so many men and women who had been wholly abandoned by their government, left to rot with the after-effects of war. He wasn't going to put all that on this nice little old lady though, not knowing her own history with war and loss. Instead, he bowed his head a little and accepted her thanks.

 

"You're so handsome!" She continued. Dean hadn't been expecting that, giving an incredulous little snort of bashful laughter. "I know I'd recognize you if I'd seen you in town before. Are you visiting someone at the hospital?" 

 

For the first time since she'd sat down, Dean gave her a once over. She was, perhaps, in her 80s, slightly hunched with age. She leaned on a cane settled between her knees and gave the impression of tired resolve. Her clothes indicated that she was not a patient or an employee of the hospital. Dean felt suddenly guilty for the free coffee in his hand because he was going to have to tell her that he'd only been walking by. 

 

"I'm in town for a memorial service, actually." One step past visiting someone in a hospital, he supposed. "I'm staying down the road and came out for a walk. I'm Dean." He reached out his hand for a handshake and she took it. Her hand was soft and small. 

 

"I'm Eloise. Sorry to hear that you're in town on sad business." 

 

They sat in silence together for a moment, ruminating on their personal struggles before Eloise offered up her own story. "I'm visiting my husband. He had bypass surgery a couple days ago and--" Her jaw tightened in a way that Dean had seen many times in the past. He knew that expression, the one that said things felt hopeless but by god, you were going to tough it out for pure spite. "--he's not doing as well as the doctors wanted." 

 

"I'm sorry to hear that." 

 

She sniffed, as if that was the only moment of weakness she was willing to give to the situation. Feeling great respect for her, Dean smiled sadly. 

 

"You don't happen to be in town for Madeline Hall's funeral?" Eloise rerouted the conversation back to Dean. Small town, but Dean honestly hadn't expected her to know. 

 

He confirmed with a nod, and nothing more, since he wanted to see where she would take that. 

 

She smiled and reached over to pat his knee. "Did you know her son, Marshall?" The name sat heavily on Dean's shoulders and he found his coffee cup suddenly very interesting. She took his silence as confirmation. "I taught him in second grade. Good boy."

 

"I served with him," Dean finally offered. He died next to me, he decided not to add. 

 

"The gentleman who took care of Madeline did too. Cam? Cal? Do you know him?" 

 

"Cas," Dean corrected and then nodded. "He was our sergeant." Somehow, talking casually about Cas Novak with a perfect stranger felt good, regardless of the churning of his stomach. He needed to talk to someone about it. How many times had he told the vets under his care that it didn't do to bottle things up? He was a hypocrite in that regard. 

 

"A sergeant?" Surprised. "He--" she searched for the right words to say here and Dean could tell that she was looking for a polite way to say something not so polite. "He doesn't strike me as the officer type. A good man though. Perhaps a little misguided." She laughed, sheepish, concerned that she was going to offend her new friend. 

 

"I haven't seen him in a long time. Not since we served together. He's changed a little, yeah. He didn't used to--well, he didn't used to be like that." Granted, Dean didn't fully know what he was like now. He supposed he'd find out more tonight. But he'd learned plenty from Eloise's reaction alone. Cas had a reputation, yet the woman still spoke fondly of him. Dean's shoulders relaxed without him realizing it, relief washing through him at that. 

 

"War changes people," Eloise nodded with understanding before glancing at her watch. "I'd best get back to Hector."

 

"I hope he gets to go home soon," Dean offered and Eloise’s eyes squinted as she blinked back the rising tears. 

 

"He's a tough old sonofabitch. He survived a war too, Dean. He came home to me once. He'll do it again. You know, it's good that you're here. Hector always told me that part of what got him through the bad times--the bad memories--was knowing someone had been through it with him. He talked to his old war buddies day in, day out. You and Cas have a lot to talk about, I suspect, not having seen each other for so long. I'm glad Madeline could bring you two back together. Marshall too." The woman had gleaned more from their short interaction than Dean had originally suspected and perhaps more than he would have liked. He did not like the feeling of being transparent to anyone.  But he laughed, rubbing a hand over his face. 

 

"Thanks, Eloise." 

 

She patted his knee one last time before getting to her feet and disappearing back into the hospital. 

 

@@@@

 

Dean spent the rest of the afternoon wandering about town. He spoke with a few other people about Madeline, but mostly people knew Cas. For all of his gadding about, the drug use, the sex, the laissez faire attitude, people genuinely liked him. 

 

He grabbed an early dinner at a cafe and then went back to the It'll Do for a quick shower. As he stood in front of the mirror afterward, he found himself anxious. Should he shave? What was he going to wear? Why did it fucking matter? 

 

The answer to that was easy: Dean was still hopelessly attracted to Cas and their nearness in the car had only confirmed that suspicion. But what was he going to do about that? Nothing. Falling into some sort of one-night grief fuck was not Dean's plan and as much as he'd missed Cas, he still harbored that sour resentment all these years later. There was too much pain involved to be standing here, nervous like this was a first date. 

 

"Get your shit together," Dean told his reflection before skipping a fresh shave and going to throw on a t-shirt and jeans. At least he was clean, that was all the effort he should be expected to put into this meeting. 

 

Out of pride, he walked to Lloyd's and wished he hadn't since halfway through the short jaunt, his knee started aching and he wanted to slow down. But Dean was never late, so he pushed himself to make it right on time. 

 

On a Sunday night, the bar was just about empty, and Cas was nowhere to be found. His stomach lurched anxiously as Dean found himself a spot at the bar and ordered whatever was on tap. Would Cas blow him off? Was it ridiculous to expect the man to be on time? He didn't exactly ooze punctuality anymore, though this was just one more of those things that had changed about him, putting Dean off the whole get together. 

 

It didn't take two minutes before Dean felt a hand between his shoulders and Cas' rough voice was right behind him. "Sorry, I was in the bathroom. I didn't see you come in." 

 

That voice never failed to do things to Dean and he hoped that Cas didn't feel the shiver that ran from their point of contact all the way down his spine. As Cas slid onto the stool next to him, his hand lingered, dragging from the center of Dean's back to his shoulder and then down his tricep. Dean flexed it unconsciously. 

 

"Hey," he said lamely, before taking a long drink of the beer that had blessedly appeared in front of him. That bartender was getting a hefty tip tonight. 

 

"Bourbon for this one next," Cas grinned at the bartender, who glanced at Dean with a small smile and nodded. "That's Gene. He's great." 

 

The way Cas said that made Dean bristle like those two girls had made him bristle yesterday. "Have you slept with the entire town?" He asked sorely. 

 

Cas gave a shrug. "Possibly," more thought. "Probably." 

 

Since Dean had no right to be upset about that, he took another drink. He could already see a pattern forming tonight in which he got very inebriated. Probably a good thing that he hadn't brought the car. 

 

"Did you come here to find out more about my sex life?" Cas was on point tonight, sharp, glinting with flirtatious vitriol. Dean could feel it. He recognized the mood and that fact alone opened up an aching hole in his chest. He missed this mood. Goddamnit, he missed everything about Cas. He didn't think he could handle it and he glanced over at Cas for the first time that evening, eyes begging him to ease up. 

 

Cas response was predatory at first, gaze hardening as if he would go in for the kill right then. There was anger there that Dean hadn't noticed before and it was directed at him. But as they looked at each other, Cas softened. "Do you remember that Christmas party?" He said instead of the cutting remark he'd clearly been considering before. 

 

"When we got Smalls so drunk he threw up for a day after?" Dean replied, grateful for the uncomplicated memory. They both started laughing.

 

"We almost killed him!" Cas shook his head, covering his eyes with his hand.

 

"Nah! We had IV fluids. It's not Christmas unless someone nearly dies from drink." 

 

It had been the perfect thing to ease the tension and before too long, they were drinking and reminiscing about the crazy years they'd shared together. The topics stayed carefully on good times, some including Marshall, of course, but none getting close to actual war, or loss, or death. It was a fine line they both walked without toeing the unspoken boundaries. 

 

"I bet I can still beat you at darts," Cas challenged and Dean groaned. They were on drink three of the evening and Dean hadn't even gotten up to go to the bathroom. He could handle his liquor, but he was going to be wobbly upon standing and not in the best form for darts. It had not escaped his notice that the bar had the game. 

 

"What do you bet?" Dean conceded, leaning his elbow on the bar and propping his head up on his hand so that he could angle his attention right at Cas. Their set up at the bar had been helpful to Dean, catching most of Cas in the peripheral. If he'd had to look at him all night, he'd be in an even worse state than he was right now. 

 

"Let's keep it simple. Loser pays the tab." They had a history of betting back in the service. Mostly, they bet undesirable job details. Sometimes the two of them had bet racy favors to be carried out in hurried trysts behind crates and tents. Dean damned himself for being disappointed that Cas hadn't suggested something like that. 

In answer, Dean gathered himself up to an unsteady stand and Cas held out a hand, half-worried that Dean would go toppling right over. 

"M'good," Dean said firmly and made a beeline for the bathroom. By the time he was done (water splashed on his face doing wonders for his alertness), Cas had set up the game. 

"Did you keep playing after you left the army?" Dean asked, playing with the weight of the darts Cas had handed him. 

"Oh yeah, great way to get free drinks. How about you?" He gestured for Dean to go first, who declined. It would be better to see what he was up against first. Cas obliged and took steady aim at the board. All four darts found their way skillfully into high scoring slots. Dean was going to be paying the tab for sure. 

"There was a board in the hospital in Virginia where I recovered. And my last squad played a lot. But nothing since then." As if to prove his ineptitude, Dean chucked the darts. All in all, he didn't do too bad for that round, but was soundly trounced by Cas who took a great deal of pleasure in his win. Cas' delighted grin soaked into Dean's skin and warmed him to the core. He was not drunk; he was tipsy, but his muscles felt loose and he clapped Cas on the back before squeezing his shoulder. It was easy to lean into him and Cas received the touch with something akin to hunger. 

"What do you do to let off steam now?" Cas asked. Apparently it was time to talk about the present instead of reminiscing about fragments of the past. 

"Drink," Dean answered honestly. "Work on cars. I've got a few neighbors I help out with their vehicles. I fish." He realized that he still had his hand on Cas' shoulder and he dropped it to his side. "I can't do as much as I could before, but I get by." 

"Before '08?" Cas prompted. 

"Yeah, got blown off a truck. Wrenched my back. Hasn't been the same since." 

Cas visibly winced at that and turned to reset the dart board. "Another game?" 

"Sure." Dean watched Cas carefully, interested by the fact that as much as Cas wanted to know more about his life, he shied away from asking more questions about this particular part. "You're the first person who hasn't asked me for more details on that."

"I don't like thinking about you hurting. Especially in a situation I can't do anything about." 

The answer made Dean's throat feel tight, dry. He leaned heavily against the table they'd moved their drinks to by the dart board. As the night wore on, more people had filtered into the bar. Someone stood at the jukebox, pumping in quarters, building a playlist. Dean focused there, wondering what kind of music they were going to be subjected to. 

Cas put Dean's darts on the table and paused for a swig of his drink. He'd stuck with sweet rum drinks just like Dean had stuck with his bourbon. Hard liquor. Neither seemed ready to slow down with beer. 

"Anyway, I spent a couple months recovering in a military hospital in Virginia. Actually the same one I was in after--" He didn't need to say it out loud because they both knew what he was talking about. "Came back to Kansas. Got a job with the VA. That's about it, Cas. You're up to speed. Now you." 

"Me?" 

"Yeah, 12 years. Give me the rundown. That's what we're here for, right?" 

Cas seemed less inclined to speak about himself and he fiddled with the darts, poking the business end against the pad of his thumb enough to dent the skin but not puncture it. 

"I finished the tour. I finished out my commitment and then I discharged. There isn't much to tell after that, Dean. Drifted around, got some temporary jobs. Nothing spectacular." Cas looked broken to speak on it, but Dean needed to know more. 

"What about Madeline?" 

"I visited her after I got out of the army. We kept in touch after that. She needed someone to take care of her about four years ago, so I moved here. I wasn't doing anything else of import." 

As much as Dean had mourned over the loss of Marshall, as much as he'd thought about Madeline, the woman who lost a son that thought the world of her, he had never considered reaching out to her. It was one of the many things Dean had loved about Cas: his sense of humanity and compassion, like it was his duty to care for everyone's well-being. 

"What?" Cas asked, bringing Dean out of his thoughts. When his attention refocused, he realized he'd been staring at Cas. 

"Nothing," he said quickly and took his turn at the board. He didn't do much better this time and once again Cas came out the victor. 

"Looks like I'm drinking for free tonight," he chided and Dean lifted his nearly empty glass in a mock-toast. 

That's when a familiar tune sifted above the din of bar noise and Dean was flooded with memory. He prayed, silently, that Cas hadn't noticed and they could get through it without mentioning it. And yet he still heard himself say: "Do you remember this song?" The words were out, hanging between them in Dean's breathy, helpless, drunk voice before he could snatch them back. 

"That little iPod and those terrible speakers Marshall got in a care package. Loaded with all of his favorite songs. Madeline sent it to him." Cas did remember. 

"He let us borrow it…" Dean ventured.

"...And you asked me to dance when this song came on," Cas finished. 

Relief spread through Dean's body as he sagged against the table and finally sat down on the stool to keep himself upright. Cas hadn't forgotten at all. "Wild, wild horses...couldn't drag me away," Dean sung to himself, low.

"It was--probably--the most romantic moment of my entire life." Cas said as he sat next to Dean, choosing the closest stool around the table. When Dean looked up, all he could do was remember the tinny rumble of the speakers whispering out the Rolling Stones, Cas pressed against him, swaying back and forth in the desert. It had been so dark that night, the memory was all sound and touch. 

As much as he felt it, Dean couldn't bring himself to say that it had been for him too. "Good song," he said instead and looked away, but not in time to miss the crestfallen look that ghosted over Cas' features. 

"Want a beer? You're buying." But Cas went from somber to jovial in flash as he got up. He didn't wait for a response before going to carry out his plan. 

A couple of beers later, Gene the bartender was announcing last call. Dean stared at his watch, wondering where the time had gone. Lloyd's closed early on Sundays, but they'd still spent nearly 5 hours drinking and shooting the shit. Last call had interrupted a very passionate speech about Dean's car and what kind of motor oil was best, to which Cas was listening attentively.

"I have beer at my place," Cas said simply and before Dean realized what he'd agreed to, he was settling the tab and walking home with Cas, using his shoulder for balance. 


	9. The End

Cas' place was closer than Dean's hotel and the alcohol in his system had plied his aching knee into silence, so the walk went quickly. The apartment was as messy as he remembered and as he made his way into the living room, he tripped over a large box of books. 

 

"What's this?" he asked. As he bent down to pull one out, he realized they were all what looked to be the same book. 

 

Cas peered over his shoulder. "I'm a Quran salesman." 

 

If Dean had been sober, he would have thought he was drunk to hear that. The idea was as surreal as any alcohol-fueled dream he'd ever had. "You're shitting me." 

 

"No. I am not shitting you. I have a little online business. I work with a local publisher for cheap and resell them to people all over the world. It's a living." 

 

"After fighting in Afghanistan, you're a Quran salesman?" Dean was nonplussed. 

 

"It wasn't the religion I was fighting." Reasonable and understanding of all cultures as always, Cas' tone held admonishment for Dean's assumption. It put Dean back in line and he nodded. Still, the sheer irony of the big box of Qurans at his feet struck his funny bone and he started to chuckle. Sooner rather than later, the chuckle turned to guffaws and Cas joined in with him. 

 

By the time they were finished laughing, Dean had to wipe a tear of mirth from his eye and he felt a little dizzy. Luckily, the old, misshapen couch was far more inviting this time around. 

 

He made a beeline to it and sank down, letting his head loll back onto the cushion. The room hadn't started to spin yet, so he had at least a few good hours left in him. 

 

"M'starving." The realization struck him as he stared up at Cas' ceiling. He could hear that Cas had moved to the kitchen to fetch their beers, but didn't bother to look over at him. The apartment was tiny enough that he was sure he'd heard. 

 

After a few seconds of rummaging, Cas responded. "I have some leftover chinese. Want it?" He made it sound like that was the only thing he had in the fridge, aside from alcohol. 

 

Dean wasn't about to turn down food at the moment and maybe some high-quality MSG would steady him. As if Cas had read his thoughts, he appeared in front of him with an outstretched take-out box. Dean hummed at its warmth as it hit his hand, but no sooner had the first forkful hit his mouth, was he squinting over at Cas who had settled himself on the opposite end of the couch. 

 

"How long has this been in your fridge?" 

 

"Few days? I'm sure it's fine." 

 

"It tastes funny." Dean peered down into the box, poking at it with the fork. 

 

"Wow, Dean. No idea you were so prissy about food. Shall I get you the caviar instead?" Apparently the sass was still strong with this one and Cas' gaze was nothing but challenge. Even if Dean had long since come to terms with his own bisexuality, he did not like to be called prissy. Cas' words silenced him and he ate the food both to defend his manhood  _ and _ because he was hungry.  

 

Instead of a beer, Cas had brought Dean a glass of water. That fact did not escape his notice and he wondered how drunk he seemed. Cas, on the other hand, already had a joint in his hand and was lighting up. 

 

Cas noticed Dean noticing. "Do you not smoke at all anymore?" Back in the service, they'd talked about it and Dean had had a more accepting opinion of recreational drugs than Cas at the time. Now the tables seemed to have turned. 

 

"Once in a great while, I do," Dean admitted. 

 

"Then why does it bother you so much when I do it?" 

 

"Does it bother you that it bothers me?" Dean finished the chinese food, glad that he had because it had brought him back to life. A long swig of cool water and he was sitting upright again, alert. 

 

At Dean's question, Cas offered a shrug, avoiding direct eye contact. 

 

"And that," Dean continued. "I've never seen you shrug so much in my life." He mimicked him, hunching up his shoulders with that 'I don't give a fuck' vibe Cas had been sporting since Dean had showed up on his doorstep.

 

"I've learned not to care about the small shit, Dean." And Cas' voice was nothing but a lilt of regret. It was clear that he still cared multitudes: about the past, about Madeline whom he'd lost, about the people he'd helped in this community. But maybe Cas was right--why care about the little shit?  

 

Dean shook his head, still not buying the 'don't sweat the small stuff' explanation entirely. Cas was running, and maybe Dean just kept asking about the weed because he wanted the man to open up to him about it. Ultimately, he realized he had no right to desire that. That dawning thought only made him angry. 

 

"It's just easier for you not to care. You're running from reality like you ran from the army." From me, Dean wanted to add, but didn't. 

 

The mood turned on a dime and Cas' eyes narrowed. Dean experienced a flicker of fear, recalling the magnitude of wrath Cas was capable of.  It did not happen often, but when it did, it was memorable. 

 

"Fuck you," Cas snarled. 

 

Now they were getting somewhere. Even outright fury was better than the muffled stoner Cas had become. 

 

"Did I hit the nail on the head there, buddy? I don't like you smoking your brains out because it just reminds me of the fact that you're a coward. You leave. Whether it's actually walking out the door or shutting your head down with that shit." 

 

"Dean." A sharp warning, layered over a boiling storm.

 

But Dean was only just getting started. Now that it was spilling out of him, he couldn't stop it. He started to tremble at his core, but showed nothing outwardly but steady, calculated anger. "Why did you even pull me out? Why did you drag my ass out of hell if you were only going to fucking leave after? 12 years! And not one word!" 

 

"You disappeared on me too! You don't know how to look a guy up!?" Cas shouted back as he launched to his feet. The move revealed how drunk Cas wasn't, balanced as a cat poised to fight. 

 

Dean didn't want to hear that and his racing mind glossed over Cas' very good point. "You should have left me there. You should have left me there like you left Marshall." It was utterly illogical, but it was the feeling that had festered down deep in his gut, unspoken all these years. Now it lay between them like so much vomited garbage.

 

Silence. Cas standing, Dean sitting with his head between his knees. The rancor between them had sputtered to a halt and all that was left in the air was exhaustion. Dean felt the weight of Cas' hand on his shoulder, then carding up through his hair.

 

"Don't," Dean spat, got to his feet, and stormed out. 

 

@@@@

 

_ 2005 _

 

_ When Dean opened his eyes, he was looking at an unfamiliar ceiling, harsh lights bearing down on him with halogen clarity. His first morbid instinct was to sit up and look down at his own body. From the violent dreams he'd been having, there was a real chance that he would not find himself whole. Before he could effectively assess the situation, the room started swimming and pain flooded his head. His vision dimmed around the edges, but Cas' familiar tenor was there like a hand reaching through the dark. _

 

_ "Easy, Dean. Easy."  _

 

_ Dean felt a firm grip on his shoulder, anchoring him back to Earth. _

 

_ "You're in the hospital in Baghdad. You're safe."  _

 

_ The words themselves did nothing to reassure Dean, but Cas' voice, his presence, was enough to settle him down. He relaxed back into the crisp, clean sheets around him and waited for the inevitable flood of memory. _

 

_ "Marshall," Dean finally spoke and the word was nothing but a rasp. "Marshall," he said again, putting more force behind it but getting nothing from his absent voice. _

 

_ The tide hit him and along with it, a sea of aching loss. Marshall was dead. Buried beneath so many pounds of rubble. The last thing Dean remembered was Cas clutching his shoulder and dragging him away as he yelled his protests. They had to get Marshall out. They couldn't leave him! _

 

_ "Dean, I'm so sorry." As if Cas had been waiting ages to say it.  _

 

_ Dean didn't respond right away. His silence grew heavy between them until Dean lost consciousness again.  _

 

_ @@@@ _

 

_ The next time Dean woke, the memories were already there and it was less jarring. Cas was gone. Dean had no idea what day it was. _

 

_ A chipper nurse brought him lunch, maybe dinner, as Dean pulled back his covers to look at his body. _

 

_ "You've been in pretty bad shape for awhile. Leg's broken, but you still got it." The woman informed him. "Concussion. All kinds of internal hemorrhaging. But the doctor says you'll be okay."  _

 

_ Dean muttered a half-hearted thanks. _

 

_ "Your buddy pulled you out. He's been here non-stop since you came in. He had to get back though. He said to tell you he'd visit you as soon as he could."  _

 

_ Dean simply wished she would stop talking. Eventually, she did. _

 

_ It was two weeks before he saw Cas again. _

 

_ "You're looking better," he said as he sat down in the visitor's chair, an uncomfortable-looking little folding deal set close to the bed. Cas perched on the edge of it as if he wasn't quite sure he would be staying long. _

 

_ Feeling the very beginnings of cold rage start in his stomach, Dean averted his gaze out the window. _

 

_ "We got Marshall's body. We sent him home." Cas was never one to be indirect. _

 

_ "Good," came the response, followed by more weighted silence, during which Cas sat perfectly still. It had always been a fascinating quality to Dean: the way Cas could make himself a statue. He used to think on it with fondness. Now it annoyed him. _

 

_ "I hear I should thank you. For pulling me out. For saving my life." Part of him wished the words didn't sound so hollow. He wished he could find comfort in Cas' presence like he had so many times before, but the echoing din of fire and brimstone, explosions and the memory of his own screams muted every other emotion in his brain.  _

 

_ "You know I don't expect that. I just wanted to see you. I've been worried about you."  _

 

_ "Doc says I'll be fine."  _

 

_ "That's not what I meant."  _

 

_ Dean turned his gaze on Cas, who was staring at him with that familiar brand of intensity that used to make Dean feel truly seen. _

 

_ "My best friend is dead, Cas. What do you want from me?"  _

 

_ It had never occurred to Dean that Cas had lost a friend too, that in that moment, Cas needed Dean more than the other way around.  _

 

_ Cas stood up and reached for Dean's hand. When their fingers touched, Dean felt a spark of emotion, but it glinted off of still too raw nerves. It hurt, but he didn't pull away, just let the pain galvanize his resolve to feel nothing else. _

 

_ "I want you to get better," Cas said simply as they locked eyes.  _

 

_ Slowly, Dean's gaze slid away to their linked hands before he pulled his back.  _

 

_ "I'll try," he promised, but wasn't sure he could.  _

 

_ "I'll visit again soon."  _

 

_ As it turned out, Cas was as unable to fulfill his own promise as Dean was. Dean didn't see him again. _


	10. Poisoned

Dean curled in a damp puddle of his own sweat soaked into the sheets of his motel bed. It was disgusting. He felt disgusting. In some distant bitter haze, he blamed the Chinese food he'd eaten earlier at Cas' place. Like their not-date, that too had ended in disaster. Dean felt as if he'd been hit by a Mack truck, nothing more than a gory smear baking on hot asphalt in August. He wanted his own bed and perhaps more importantly, the cool tiled floor of his familiar bathroom. 

 

But he was miles away from home, dying in a cleverly named motel on a random Monday morning. The last time Dean had had enough focus to register time, it had been 4am. At least the memorial service wasn't until Tuesday. Maybe he would live that long. Maybe it would be a double memorial service. Rest in Peace, Dean. 

 

Falling into a writhing, restless sleep to the sound of his own groans, Dean paid no mind to the brief swell of light in the room as the door opened and shut quietly. 

 

"Dean?" 

 

He winced as the bed shifted under additional weight, causing his muscles to clench. Even his skin hurt and the drag of sheets against it was making every nerve ending shriek. He'd peeled off most of his clothes, leaving himself in boxers, but it hadn't helped the sickly heat coming from inside of him. 

 

Confused by another presence in the room, but only caring about the terrible ache in his limbs and gut, Dean simply pulled the sheets over his head. But the sour smell of his own breath was enough to make him seek air again and he gasped as he threw the sheets off entirely. 

 

"Jesus, Dean. You're sick. You need to drink some water." Cas' voice came gentle, but firm as he got up from the bed and went into the bathroom. 

 

"How did you--" but the effort of speaking was too much and Dean's voice was hardly there anyway. The waves of nausea and vomiting had taken their toll, leaving Dean's throat raw. 

 

The next thing he knew, he was being helped to sit up, a sturdy arm supporting his shoulders, while a cool glass of water was being pressed to his lips. "Drink." There was no arguing with that tone. 

 

Dean didn't realize just how dehydrated he'd let himself become until the water hit his tongue and he whined with desperation for more. Shaky hands lifted to tilt the glass higher so the water would come faster, but Cas held the glass steady. 

 

"Slowly. Don't chug it or it'll just come right back up." 

 

The water helped, minutely, and Dean was able to hold his eyes open to look at the man on the bed with him. Of course it was Cas, though part of Dean really thought he'd just conjured him up in his mind. 

 

"I know Renee, the front desk lady. She let me in." By way of explanation. "Just shut up. You can be pissed at me later." Cas was not taking any guff and Dean was too wiped-out to offer any. "Lie back down." 

 

Dean obeyed with a thick swallow, praying that the worst of the nausea was over. He was too grateful for Cas' presence to even acknowledge the fact that he should be apologetic, or still angry, or sullen-- _ something _  after the blow up they'd had just hours before. But right now, he just wanted Cas to stay with him. 

 

"I'm staying," Cas said, as if Dean had spoken the desire out loud. "I'm not having you die of food poisoning because of me too. Not after I forced you to live all these years." Snark, when Dean was on his deathbed? The infuriating little quip earned Cas a glare, but the indignation faded as soon as Dean felt Cas' hand comb soothingly through his sweat-slick hair. Why was he being so kind? Because, Dean realized, that was just who Cas was. 

 

Throughout the morning and early afternoon, Cas stuck by Dean's side. Once, he had tried to move to the little lounge chair, but Dean had been desperate enough to humiliate himself and asked him to stay close. So Cas propped his legs up on the bed and leaned back against the headboard once more, every so often offering Dean water to drink. 

 

Mostly, Dean slept, interspersed with horrific scrambles to the bathroom. Each time he came out, Cas patiently got him back to bed. 

 

By 1pm, Dean felt something like human again and he was able to remain conscious enough to sit up on his own. Cas was watching Judge Judy on the television, shaking his head and muttering to himself about the case. For awhile, Dean just watched him. The man looked exhausted, probably having had no sleep at all.

 

"I ate your leftovers from Biggerson's while you were asleep. I didn't think you'd mind and I was starving." Cas was the first to speak but he didn't take his eyes off of the TV. 

 

"Yeah, man, it's fine. You--" Dean didn't want to release him from his obligation just yet, but couldn't have Cas staying if he didn't want to, not after the things he'd yelled at him last night. "I think I'm okay now. I can take it from here if you have somewhere to be." 

 

"I don't." 

 

Dean looked down at himself and grimaced. Even though his fever wasn't quite as intense now, he was still sticky and probably smelled terrible. The idea of a shower sounded like heaven, but he knew he wasn't going to have the strength to take one until tomorrow if he was lucky. Self-consciously, he tugged the covers up so that his chest wasn't exposed. 

 

"But I was going to go out for supplies, if you're okay to be left alone? You need more than just water. I don't think I've ever seen anyone throw up that many times in my life. Or god knows what else you were doing to that poor bathroom." Cas cast him an impish side glance, one corner of his mouth turned up, teasing. Dean was grateful for it. If they could just forget how last night had ended, they could get through the rest of this week together. And then… Dean didn't really want to think about 'and then.'

 

"Take my key so you don't have to break in again." 

 

"I didn't break in," just a touch indignant. "I banged on the door and you didn't answer. I thought you were ignoring me, but I had more to say to you, so…"

 

"So you entered private property--" Dean started.

 

"With express consent of the owner of said property!" Cas finished. He wouldn't be grousing so much if he didn't feel a little guilty about it. 

 

Instinctively, Dean reached for Cas' hand and gave it a squeeze. "Thank you." It may have been moderate delirium allowing him to react without hesitation, but Cas seemed to appreciate it because he gripped Dean's hand tight and smiled. 

 

"All right. I'll be back in twenty with gatorade and broth." Even though Cas indicated he was leaving, he lingered, having a difficult time letting go of Dean's hand. "Don't try to do anything while I'm gone," he added a warning. "You're still weak." Dean realized that Cas must have experience taking care of headstrong people thanks to his years of looking after Madeline. 

 

Only until Dean promised not to get up for anything less than an emergency did Cas finally leave. The emptiness of the room suddenly reminded him too much of home. Hours before, that would have been a comfort. Now, not so much. Dean had not missed the fact that Cas had come here to continue their argument, but he couldn't bear the thought of revisiting it. He hoped that Cas would let sleeping dogs lie. 

 

@@@@

 

Dean hadn't expected to be watching the clock for Cas' return, but when the time hit 30 minutes, he started to get anxious. Cas had said he'd be back in 20. Part of Dean had hoped to fall back asleep, but he fell into watching the daytime television Cas had left on instead. Dean wondered if that's what Cas watched on his own time or if it was just what had been on when he hit the power button. There was something endearing about the whole idea of Cas muttering invested comments at reality television. 

 

The jangle of keys and rustle of grocery bags made Dean sit up expectantly. 

 

"You'd better like green flavor; it's all they had," Cas called out as he juggled the over-full sacks. 

 

"Whoa, did you think I was going to be holed up for weeks? That's a lot of supplies."

 

Cas replied with a sheepish shrug. "I got some peanut butter and jelly for me. And licorice for you when you feel better." 

 

It surprised Dean that Cas remembered and he flushed, the reaction having nothing to do with his fever. 

 

"Still your favorite, right?" 

 

Dean nodded. Even though the thought of putting anything into his stomach made him retch, the fact that Cas remembered a passing conversation about his favorite candy from 12 years ago filled him with warmth. 

 

He watched as Cas unpacked the groceries. Green Gatorade, cans of broth, saltines, 7up, licorice, bread, peanut butter, and jelly.

 

"No beer?" Dean was feeling well enough to joke. 

 

"Ready to drink already? You beast." Cas promptly handed Dean a bottle of the Gatorade. "Try and get that down," before he settled into organizing the supplies on the counter and making himself a sandwich. 

 

"Is this how you were with Madeline?" Dean ventured. 

 

"How am I?" Cas turned to lean back on the counter, canting his head curiously to the side. 

 

"Like a sergeant." 

 

That made Cas look away. Dean caught a mixture of amusement and embarrassment on his face before he went back to finishing up his sandwich. 

 

"I suppose so," he said finally. "She was stubborn, like you, so I had to use my warrior voice. Drink." 

 

Dean drank. 

 

"She loved to have me read to her." It was the first time Cas had offered information about her on his own and Dean was quiet, hoping Cas would continue unbidden. "Books, poetry. She loved Walt Whitman. Pablo Neruda." Cas' voice had softened, gravelly edges smoothed into quiet velvet. 

 

When he finished making his PB&J, he bit into it contemplatively, lost in thought. After a while, he came to sit down on the bed and Dean didn't protest. 

 

"She had me re-read letters from Marshall. You remember how much he wrote to her. Two or three a week." 

 

Dean wasn't sure he was ready for that, but he stayed steady. "Oh?" 

 

"He wrote a lot about you. About us." 

 

It occurred to Dean that Cas had been reliving Marshall's memories of them for the last four years. Dean hardly knew what to say. 

 

"I think Madeline felt like she knew you," Cas continued, looking straight ahead. "She had a favorite letter--" He paused and Dean felt Cas' attention refocus, shift back to him. The pause was to give Dean the opportunity to stop this, the space to change the subject or get angry or whatever he needed to do. When nothing came, Cas looked over at him. "It was the one where he told her you came out to him. It meant a lot to him. He said: I don't feel so alone here anymore. This is the best thing I could have hoped for." Cas had read those words so many times that he had them memorized. 

 

The drone of the people arguing on television struck a sharp contrast to their quiet reverie and Dean put it on mute. Silence swallowed the room and Dean couldn't stop thinking that they had both left Marshall alone in the end. 

 

Just as grief threatened to overwhelm Dean, Cas shifted next to him. "Dean. What's going through your head right now? Please tell me." 

 

The request was so pure that Dean didn't have the heart to deny it. "Can I read them?" 

 

"Of course. If you'd like. I'll bring them by." 

 

Dean nodded a thanks, but didn't trust his voice to respond. Cas finished his sandwich and Dean finished his Gatorade. 

 

After a little while, Cas sucked in a breath, refreshing the mood that had turned. "So, we should talk about--" Dean tensed, terrified that Cas was going to bring up their earlier fight "--about the camping trip. It's a bit of a hike to the overlook. Do you think you'll be able to make it?" 

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean caught the provocative smirk Cas wore. Cas knew well and good that Dean would push himself to the point of breaking just to keep his pride. It had never failed to amuse Cas that Dean was so easy to goad into nearly anything just by telling him he couldn't do it. 

 

"You think a bum knee, a bad back, and some poisoned Chinese food is going to keep me from doing what I came here to do?" 

 

Cas' laugh was nothing but fond.


	11. Memorial

Tuesday afternoon found Dean sitting in the back of a small chapel area, uncomfortably wrangled into a black suit. He hated the stuffy, rigid feel of the fabric against his skin. It was beyond muggy in the small space. 

 

"I thought you said there wasn't going to be anyone here," Dean whispered over at Cas who was dressed far more casual, but no less respectful in a black long-sleeved button down and charcoal gray slacks. Dean wished he had considered something similar. Hitching a finger under his collar, he tugged. There were too many people in this small space and it was starting to get to him. 

 

As people had started filing in, ten, then fifteen, now twenty, Cas had watched all of them with a gaping look of confusion. "I didn't think there would be. Madeline didn't get out much in the end. She didn't even know most of these people, I don't think." He lifted his hand to give a respectful acknowledgement to an elderly man's wave. "Like him. I mow Fred's lawn on Tuesdays, but he didn't know Madeline at all." 

 

Dean cocked his head and examined the people gathering, settling in around them. 

 

A few more people filtered in and Cas nodded at each of them in recognition. 

 

"And them?" Dean asked of the last two.

 

"I bring Sal his groceries. And I play chess with Mr. Kim in the park." 

 

"They're here for you," Dean concluded and Cas squinted at him, bewildered. "Cas, many of these people are here for you because you help them and they saw a chance to support you when you needed support." 

 

Cas gawked around the small chapel dumbfounded, and Dean realized that Cas still didn't quite see what Dean had found out in one afternoon just talking to people in the small town: Cas' presence was a boon; he helped them without thinking, without expecting anything in return. For a moment, Dean thought his chest would explode for the amount of feeling coursing through it right now. The utterly innocent, puzzled expression Cas wore settled into Dean's skin. Cas hadn't changed at all, not really. He was still the man he'd known in Iraq, the one who surprised him daily with his compassion and strength, the one who commanded love as much as he commanded respect. Dean felt the realization pull at his heart, nearly tugging it out of his chest.

 

The service itself was short, something simple that Cas had designed, presumably with the help of Madeline herself. The songs were modern, and the quotes were from her favorite poems rather than the bible. Dean found it easeful and beautiful. 

 

To close, Cas read Pablo Neruda's _If You Forget Me_.

 

" I want you to know one thing." Cas began.  

 

"You know how this is: 

if I look 

at the crystal moon, at the red branch 

of the slow autumn at my window, 

if I touch 

near the fire 

the impalpable ash 

or the wrinkled body of the log, 

everything carries me to you, 

as if everything that exists, 

aromas, light, metals, 

were little boats 

that sail 

toward those isles of yours that wait for me. 

 

Well, now, 

if little by little you stop loving me 

I shall stop loving you little by little."

 

As he spoke from memory, Cas' eyes had not wavered from Dean's, though their physical distance was the farthest the small chapel would allow. As the poem progressed, Dean looked down at his hands in his lap, feeling laid too bare.  

 

"If suddenly 

you forget me 

do not look for me, 

for I shall already have forgotten you. 

 

If you think it long and mad, 

the wind of banners 

that passes through my life, 

and you decide 

to leave me at the shore 

of the heart where I have roots, 

remember 

that on that day, 

at that hour, 

I shall lift my arms 

and my roots will set off 

to seek another land."

 

The words hurt, as if Cas was telling him directly that he had forgotten him and it was his own fault. Or that they would forget Madeline and Marshall and they would both be gone, gone, gone. Dean focused on Madeline, seeking what she had loved about these words, why Cas and she had chosen them for her last.

 

"But 

if each day, 

each hour, 

you feel that you are destined for me 

with implacable sweetness, 

if each day a flower 

climbs up to your lips to seek me, 

ah my love, ah my own, 

in me all that fire is repeated, 

in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, 

my love feeds on your love, beloved, 

and as long as you live it will be in your arms 

without leaving mine."

 

Dean tried not to hear the longing in Cas' voice.

 

@@@@

 

As the gathering filtered out to the reception area, Dean set himself among them. He sipped water, hoping it would loosen his tight throat and make his body feel like his own again. He hadn't been to a funeral since his father's in 2009. Being here was bringing that all down on top of him again, slowly but surely. The poem rattled around in his head too, knocking against his memories of Marshall. 

 

Cas had found his way through the attendants and stood next to Dean by the refreshment table. "She would have been pleased." He second guessed himself, brow furrowed in thought. "She also would have admonished these people for sitting through her service for some free nibbles and lemonade." He looked so tired, a sadness building in him as he wrapped one arm around his waist, the other lifting his hand so he could chew at his thumbnail. "But I like your explanation for their presence better." Added softly, with a glint of hope mixed into the blue. 

 

"Did Madeline pick that poem you read?" 

 

Sucking in a breath as if waking from a long sleep, Cas nodded. "She did. Oh, that's the funeral director. I need to speak to him about clean up. You okay on your own?" 

 

Dean wasn't sure why Cas would ask that. Was his inner turmoil so obvious on his face? Did Cas simply know him that well still? "Of course," he tried not to sound indignant before Cas left to take care of logistics. In his wake, Dean simply felt awkward, standing in a roomful of people he didn't know. 

 

It reminded him so much of his father's funeral. Dean hadn't wanted one. John hadn't either, but Sam had insisted. Some form of normalcy, he'd begged, and Dean had to indulge him. Sam had been 22 when their father died, on the cusp of graduating Stanford. He was a grown man, but Dean still treated him like a child, protecting him from as many bad aspects of their upbringing as he could. If having a memorial service for John Winchester would help Sam lay him to rest, then Dean was going to make it happen. 

 

The sham of it had driven Dean to madness, people milling around that he didn't know, telling him that his father would be proud of him and his accomplishments as a soldier. How he was just like John. The truth was he was nothing like John, and his dad had spent 26 years finding little ways to tell Dean he didn't approve. He'd missed Cas so much at that funeral that he'd smuggled a bottle of Jack down to the church basement and drank it. Maybe he was more like John than he ever wanted to admit. 

 

When the hand touched his arm, it tore him from his thoughts and he flinched more than was necessary.

 

"Oh! I'm so sorry, Dean. I didn't mean to scare you." Eloise stood in front of him and Dean eased immediately. She looked at him as if she understood exactly why he'd jumped and there was no judgment in her expression.

 

"I didn't know you were coming," Dean said as he took her hand in greeting. 

 

Eloise beamed, seemingly just pleased that Dean remembered her at all from their brief conversation at the hospital. "I wanted to pay my respects…" she glanced around and when her eyes landed on Cas, her smile grew wider. As awful as Dean was feeling at the moment, he had to appreciate her balls for smiling so wide at a memorial service. "...And to see how you were getting on with Cas. I told Hector about you and he said two things." She held up one finger. "First, make sure he keeps in touch with Cas after this." Another finger. "Second, keep your paws off my wife." She batted at Dean's arm. "Don't listen to that last part." 

 

Her presence was such a juxtaposition to the sober setting that Dean had to laugh. The sound rising out of his throat made him feel better than any amount of water, space, or time could have. 

 

"And how is Hector?" 

 

"Oh, still fighting." 

 

Hector's words rang in Dean's head as he scanned to where Cas was speaking with the funeral director. What would happen after this? Would they keep in touch? Dean wasn't sure he was satisfied with either answer to that question: yes <I>or</I> no. 

 

"Dean, you need to hold onto him." The words were a big risk to Eloise, but she was old and could say whatever she wanted. "As a friend or--whatever else." Her voice was so light that the weight of the words didn't strike quite so hard as one might expect. 

 

Still, Dean gave her a wrinkle of his brow and a cock of his head. 

 

"He loves you. I'm old. I'm not blind. Wouldn't take 20/20 vision to see it anyway. Hector looks at me just like that. Oh, you think I care you're both men? Please. This is 2017." 

 

Unsure of where to take umbrage, Dean excused himself as politely as he could, much to Eloise's chagrin. 

 

To his own surprise, when he found the little utility closet, he was thinking more about John Winchester than Cas Novak.  He only wished he would have snaked some liquor from the little bar serving drinks. At least he was away from all those sympathetic well-wishers. Unfortunately, the memories they roused in him could not be left in the reception area. There he stood, feeling the beginnings of a minor meltdown, palms sweating, breath shallow. The shit that had come up this weekend, the shit that had never been resolved: Marshall, Cas, John, Madeline, loss. 

 

Pressing his fingertips into the firm heat of his forehead, massaging the skin between his eyebrows, Dean practiced the breathing techniques he had told countless veterans to use when they felt this way. It kept him stable, but didn't bring him back from the edge. 

 

He kept seeing Sam giving their father's eulogy. Dean had sat in the front of the church, hating the man for leaving them as he had, leaving them long before he'd checked out of the world physically. Dean had not been able to shake the feeling that John Winchester's car accident had not been an accident at all. It had been a choice, just like the drinking and the emotional distance and the disapproval. 

 

When Dean inhaled sharply, he cringed because the sound was more of a crying sniffle than a breath at all. He wasn't crying, but he might if he let himself. 

 

A gentle knock at the door forced Dean's head up. "Yeah? Sorry, I just needed a minute." That was a thing at a funeral, wasn't it? He opened the door, expecting to find some concerned stranger or the funeral director coming to tell him that this wasn't an appropriate place to take a breather. 

 

It was Cas. A deluge of unexpected relief poured down on Dean and he stepped back as Cas slipped into the little closet. They stared at each other for a few moments, Cas scrutinizing every feature of Dean's face, and Dean accepting the scrutiny with only mild discomfort. 

 

"So," Cas started. "We're in a utility closet." It was not a judgment, but in the near darkness his head angled slightly to the right, delicately seeking an explanation. 

 

"Sorry, man." 

 

"Why would you be sorry?" Cas was genuinely confused by that. 

 

"Because I should be out there for you and instead I'm hiding in here having a panic attack over my dead dad," Dean blurted, scoffing at how ridiculous it sounded out loud. He needed to just man up. That stuff had happened so many years ago - all of this had - and his life had been in a precarious holding pattern ever since. 

 

Cas was very quiet and Dean wondered if he'd said something wrong. If the space had felt tight before, it was rapidly closing down around them now. 

 

"I didn't know your father had died," Cas finally spoke. 

 

"Oh. Yeah. 2009. DUI." Dean's voice took on a hard edge. "He was the drunk driver, of course." 

 

"I'm sorry to hear it." 

 

The softer Cas became, the more Dean passed the whole thing off. This was good. In the face of Cas' sympathy, Dean could slide back into his armor. 

 

Dean shrugged. "Anyway, ready to get back?"

 

"Dean," Cas always put everything into that word and it made Dean's heart catch in his throat even after so long. "It's not an easy thing to lose a father." 

 

"How would you know? You didn't even know yours." Just like that, the hackles had raised, the guns were drawn. Cas knew Dean did this when he got close to expressing a real emotion, so he waited, not responding to the dig. Dean tried to stare him down, but it was a battle he almost always lost. 

 

He searched his memory for other cruel things he could say, anything to stifle what was rising to the surface.  He thought about how Cas had been raised in group homes, never feeling like he'd belonged to anyone but the amorphous concept of "The State." But because Cas was inherently dutiful, he had devoted his life to the concept of giving back, of serving his country, his 'father.' Dean had to admit: maybe Cas did know a little something about trying to earn the impossible love and approval of an unfathomable being. 

 

"Just--" Cas' stare was starting to wear Dean down and he dropped his arms to his sides, not even having realized that he'd folded them tightly across his chest to begin with. "All these people who didn't know her, just showing up? It's great that they came for you, but it makes me think how people do that at funerals, you know? They come and they make nice and they don't know. They don't know what that person was like." He shook his head, lost again to the ridiculousness of it. "They kept saying shit to me and Sam like: He was so proud of you. He loved you so much. There's only so much bullshit I can swallow in one sitting." 

 

Cas listened quietly. Dean hadn't realized it, but the man had raised his hand and was resting it on Dean's shoulder. The weight of it only now seeped into Dean's bones and made his body ease its tight, anxious coil. And still Cas said nothing so that Dean had the space to keep going. 

 

"People called it an accident, Cas. But I don't see what's accidental about drinking a fucking bottle of whiskey and driving your car into a tree." Whether it was suicide or not was not the point in Dean's mind. John Winchester's choices had killed him only after a lifetime of those choices had molded what Dean still saw as two broken boys. 

 

Squeezing his shoulder, Cas ducked his head to catch Dean's lowered gaze. "If he wasn't proud of you, Dean, he was a fucking idiot. I wish you'd realize that."

 

Marshall had said something like that to Dean a long time ago. It had been impossible to believe then and it was just as impossible to believe now. Maybe he just needed someone to tell him more often. Dean imagined that Cas would have done so every day if only he'd had the chance. When they made eye contact, Dean <I>missed</I> Cas with an overwhelming sense of longing for the time they'd spent apart. He wanted it back more than he'd ever wanted anything.  And even though he knew that buzz of anger and resentment was still there in his heart, the only thing he could think of right now was that nothing else mattered besides these moments when Cas made him feel right. 

 

Maybe it was foolishness all over again to think that he could ignore the unmitigated grief he still felt over losing Marshall and how that was still inextricably tied to Cas, but with Cas right there in front of him and twelve years' distance from the event, he thought maybe he could just soldier forward, embrace the suck, and find happiness. Deep down, maybe he knew better, but Dean’s mind wasn’t quite firing on all cylinders. 

 

"And your experiences, even the bad ones, made you who you are, which is…" Cas hesitated, dropping his hand, awkwardness suddenly crawling into the small, unclaimed territory between them. 

 

"...a really beautiful human being," he finished. Even though the words were spoken with conviction, melancholy  twined through the rounded edges of each syllable, like the way people said all the things they'd been meaning to say, but only right before they said goodbye. 

 

Spurred by the feeling of Cas slipping through his fingers again, Dean closed the distance between them, chasing after the memories of heat and meaning, confessions and connection, until their mouths collided and Dean was kissing him desperately. 

 

Cas let out a cry of surprise, immediately sacrificed to the hungry press of Dean's tongue and teeth as they fell together towards the door. It did not take long for Cas to kiss back, eagerness writ in the clutch of his hands on Dean's suit jacket, pulling him closer. 

 

The plush of Cas' lips working against his own stoked a steadily building fire, devouring sense and circumstance, everything holding Dean back. With greedy fingers, Dean smoothed his hand up Cas' throat, padding against his Adam's apple and then around to the back of his neck to hold him fast. His greatest fear right then was that Cas would pull away, leave through the door, and never come back just like he had at the hospital. 

 

When Cas did pull away, it struck a panic in Dean. But it was only for a moment of breath and then Cas was making weak, needy sounds as they kissed again and again. 

 

"Come home with me," Cas murmured furtively against Dean's mouth and expertly rolled his hips to make his case. 

 

The ache in Dean's body fueled his response, a nod that Cas could feel rather than see. He pressed the length of his body flush with Cas', craving more touch, all the touch he'd missed out on for a decade. He was starved for it and each small, breathless sound from Cas reminded Dean how much he had missed this.

 

It was Cas who broke away first. 

 

"Dean, we shouldn't do this here." Always proper, always in control, even when his kiss swollen lips shined pink with Dean' attentions. 

 

With a frustrated groan, Dean let his forehead drop to Cas' shoulder with a deflated thunk that made Cas laugh.

 

"I'd almost forgotten how caught up you get. Like the world isn't there when I'm kissing you," he exhaled. 

 

"Because it isn't," Dean said gruffly and Cas' body sunk toward him, pulled by the gravity of those words, begging for more. Dean obliged, angling his head to nuzzle and kiss against the crook of Cas' neck, eliciting a gasp that went straight to Dean's cock. 

 

"I missed you," Cas whimpered into the ether, so quiet that perhaps he hadn't wanted Dean to hear it. But the words found Dean's ears and nested there. He would never forget the feel of desperate relief they brought him. But they brought fear too, clamoring from the dark parts of his brain. He moved his mouth to Cas' lips to prevent anymore sweet confessions from slipping out between them. Dean simply wasn't ready for that yet; not for his own, and not for Cas'. 

 

When the second knock came at the door, Dean knew it had to be someone of authority. They'd been caught and instead of feeling guilty, Dean tilted his head back and wallowed in a moment of pure euphoria.

 

"Everything okay in there?" Came the mild voice of the funeral director. 

 

Dean dropped his gaze back to Cas who was staring at him, studying everything about him. The look, as always, was sobering. They were silent for too long and the knock came again. 

 

"Sorry! We're having a moment in here. We'll be out in a minute," Dean croaked. It was sufficient and the man left them. 

 

Cas pressed a hand to Dean's chest, keeping him at bay, steadying himself in the process. He couldn't stop staring at the way his fingers looked, splayed out against Dean's suit. 

 

"Come home with me," he said again, lifting blue eyes to meet Dean's. 

 

"I will," Dean promised.

 

@@@@

 

It was dinner time when everything was cleaned up and the bill was settled. 

"Chinese?" Cas smirked.

After their tryst in the closet, Dean had been distracted enough to make it through the crowds of well-wishers without further upset. He was in a good mood, all things considered, and Cas' joke fell on receptive ears. Dean elbowed him gently.

"How about no," he laughed. 

"Burgers?" 

"Deal." 

@@@@

The food didn't make it into their bellies. As soon as they hit the inside of the front door, Cas had Dean thrust against the wall. The crunch of fast food bags hitting the floor, a moan of lusty surprise, and the rest of the world was gone again. 

"Bedroom, now," Cas growled, turning Dean's knees to jello. Curling fingers around Dean's tie, Cas tugged, gently at first and then harder so that he could lead Dean by it. As he followed helplessly, Dean wondered if he shouldn't wear a tie more often. 

There was little room for any more thought. Dean had no time to consider his surroundings or take in the atmosphere of Cas' bedroom. There was a beaded curtain across the door though, he caught that, but only because by the time they walked through it, Cas had managed to get Dean's tie, suit jacket, and shirt off and the tendrils of beads sent shivers cascading over Dean's bare shoulders. 

Cas was frantic, fingers tugging at Dean's belt. For all his dexterity with the shirt buttons, the buckle was giving him problems. He'd walked backwards until his knees hit the mattress and he sat back on it as he fumbled with the damnable fastening of Dean's pants. 

"Christ, Cas," Dean admonished with an impatient laugh before pushing him back and unfastening it himself. He couldn't even get the zipper down before Cas' mouth was on the soft expanse below Dean's belly button, dragging his lips down to where fabric met skin. 

"Off," Cas demanded and a shiver of memory crawled up Dean's spine, making his head spin. Cas' zeal for Dean had remained unmatched in Dean's experience. No one had ever spoken to him with such need or urgency as Cas did. It made him feel like a perfect, coveted possession. 

Rushing to oblige, Dean shoved his slacks down to the ground, stepped out of them, and stood before Cas in nothing but his underwear. Only a second passed before the two of them collided again in a tangle of searching hands and hungry mouths. Somehow, by the grace of God, they managed to shed their remaining clothes. Dean could feel the hot press of Cas' cock against his thigh, heavy with arousal, setting a needful buzz into his skin that contrived to lead each movement to greater frenzy. 

"Fuck," Dean whispered, a passing secret between himself and Cas' shoulder as he kissed down to his bicep. He wanted to mark every inch of him with his lips, trace the dips and swells of Cas' body until he remembered all of him. But there wasn't enough time. When Cas wrapped deft fingers around Dean's shaft, his hips rose to meet the touch, thrusting into his fist, wanton. 

The need was maddening. Dean may as well have been celibate all these years for as much control as he had now. "Cas--please…" There was that same maddeningly weak tone he hated hearing out of himself, but it set fire to Cas. The man didn't need another invitation. 

Cas stretched the length of his lithe body to reach the bedside drawer, where he searched blindly with a fumbling hand. Dean sat up enough to chase the flavor of his skin while he was vulnerable, licking, sucking, biting anything that was exposed to him. Cas let out a frustrated groan, half-batting Dean away, half-drawing him closer. Finally, he came back with what he needed. The wrapper crackled as Cas struggled with it, Dean all the while finding his way down to his cock. Cheek resting on Cas' thigh, Dean mouthed him, lips grazing up the side, curving along with the arching line of his erection. Cas was painfully hard and Dean could feel each twitch of lust against the tip of his tongue. Dean knew he was not helping Cas focus on getting that condom open, but it was a heady notion to be the one unravelling him. 

"If you--" Cas began, voice little more than a reedy tremor. "If you want me to fuck you, Winchester--you have to--god--you have to--help." The last word came out nearly as a sob and Dean sat up on his knees to reach for Cas' hands. They were shaking, clutching the condom like a life preserver. Dean had never seen Cas so undone and for a moment, he worried that this was too much. 

Gently, Dean took the condom from Cas and opened it. "Breathe," Dean murmured and Cas did. 

When they fell back together, Cas was steady again, hands confidently smoothing over Dean's skin, gripping his waist, and flipping him over onto his back. He loomed over him, regaining his composure, the kind of composure that disarmed Dean. In all their years apart, he hadn't found anyone who did that to him with nothing more than a look. 

"You're staring again," Dean laughed, exhaling the nervous energy that had started to build up in his chest. 

Cas smiled, but didn't avert his eyes. It was the most serene that Dean had seen him in all their history together. He realized that all their experiences had been under the veil of war and judgment, secrecy and shame. Dean had never really had the opportunity to slow down and love Cas. This was the space to do that, but as he sunk into it, he started to spin out. 

Seeing Dean's expression change, Cas carded a reassuring hand through his hair. 

"It's okay, Dean. Whatever this is. It's okay." 

Cas was still perfect, and the realization was terrifying: Dean still loved him deeply. He was starting to pull himself out of the moment, sailing headlong into panic. But Cas lowered his body down, covering Dean in his soft, safe weight. The insistent press of his hips and the heaviness of Cas' erection gliding against Dean's brought him back, every nerve ending snapping to life with the need for more. 

Dean's hands smoothed around to Cas' back, gathering him up, pulling him closer before dropping to get a handful of his ass. This was met with a gasp and Cas buried his face against Dean's chest. 

With knees hitched up, Dean's heels found purchase on the sheets so that he could lift up his hips, begging Cas for action. Cas took the hint, hands searching the bed for the little bottle that had come out of the drawer. After a moment, he let his free hand trace the lines of Dean's body until he settled at the cleft of his ass and started working him open with the press of a slick finger and unyielding focus. 

The soft sounds Dean made brought Cas to new levels of urgency. Cas remembered every spot, every twist, every pace that pushed Dean to the edge. Greedily, Cas kissed him, devouring the noises he evoked. 

"Fuck," Dean whined against his mouth. "Fuck, Cas. Don't stop." 

The way Cas moved, he clearly had no intention of stopping just yet, but he did slow down. Maybe it was the telltale jerk of Dean's hips, the shortness of his breaths, or the curl of his fingers in Cas' hair that told him Dean was close on this alone. Dean could feel him easing back until finally, Cas sat up, immediately earning a protesting growl from Dean and a scrabble of hands to draw him back. But Cas had a purpose and he did not deviate from it. 

The brief distance afforded Dean the chance to stare. Their bodies had changed over the years, but Cas' shape and movements still felt like they belonged to Dean, like they'd never stopped. 

Firm hands directed Dean's thighs a little farther apart so Cas could settle between them. The head of Cas' cock rested against Dean's rim and as Cas slid inside, Dean' felt the aching stretch of Cas filling him up. His hands found Cas' thighs, needing to touch him somewhere, anywhere. His grip dug bruises into the meat of Cas' legs, but it was enough; his pain dissolved into a tide of pleasure and was washed out to sea, lost to the guttural moan that tore from Dean as Cas bottomed out. Cas paused like that and Dean's body gave a shudder to feel that blue gaze settle on his vulnerable position beneath him.

Cas' thighs shook and his arms quaked with the effort of holding still. 

"Cas…" Dean tugged him down into a kiss, needing all the closeness that afforded. He needed Cas to hold him together or he would shatter apart.

They started to move together and Dean held him tighter, descending into a mess of thrusts and moans and sensations. He could not last and he did not try. Easily, he tumbled over the edge, toes curling, long before Cas found his rhythm. Dean was coming, mewling, writhing as Cas fucked him through it. It was not gentle, but Dean had long ago proven he was not made of glass. 

Mercilessly, once the climax had passed, leaving Dean oversensitive and straining, Cas kept going. Dean hardly minded. He whimpered Cas' name instead, like a litany. 

It was the eighth time Dean whispered his name that Cas fell. He tried to kiss Dean, but all coordination escaped him and he just ended up whimpering softly against Dean's plush bottom lip as Dean combed fingers through his hair.

This had been a long time coming and it was years of release rolled into a breakneck pace, a tangle of passions rising and spent with heedless temerity. 

They were quiet then, nothing but the sound of their mingled, ragged breaths piercing the come down. It spanned like that for what seemed like eternity until Cas lifted his head from Dean's chest and kissed the pulse of his neck. 

Just like that, Dean was pulling him up for another hungry kiss, desire flaring all over again. It hadn't been enough. Dean wondered if any amount of this would ever be enough. 

@@@@

_ 2005 _

_ Sweat stung Dean's eyes, the kind of burn that didn't seem possible to withstand. But withstand it he did because there was no other option. Hands gripping his gun, he blinked against the pain and continued to shoot. He and Marshall had come under heavy fire after getting separated from the squad and there would be no letting up until they could find cover. All of Dean's training had taken over and the machine of war ground forward in his mind. He could not look back, could not consider how they had come to this moment. Everything was future, getting himself and Marshall to enough safety where they could plan their next move. _

_ "On your left!" Dean shouted a warning and saw Marshall duck behind the crumbled outcropping of a partially destroyed building. The gunfire had stopped, possibly for a reload. Dean could hear the distant cries of enemies bursting through the sudden quiet. He took the opportunity to look around. They didn't have long.  _

_ "Building," Marshall grunted as he urged Dean forward. "Come on, man, little bit ahead. Go! Go!"  _

_ Everything inside of Dean wanted Marshall to go first. But it was Marshall in the position to lay down cover fire in order for Dean to launch ahead and make it into the safety of the structure. If they'd both gone together, it was likely one of them would have been hit by enemy bullets. With Marshall's steady fire, Dean had the opportunity to sprint the short distance through open space.  _

_ To Dean's relief, Marshall scrabbled into the shelter shortly after. The clacking rat-a-tat of gunfire followed him, but it was muted now behind the walls. They could both hear the ragged sound of their struggling breath now.  _

_ "You okay?" Dean managed to rasp first. Marshall gave a short nod. _

_ It went quiet again, save for the distant pops of fighting elsewhere in the city. Karbala. They were clearing the dregs and stragglers from the path already cut through by previous units. The only combatants left were the kind with little hope of overarching success, just the grim satisfaction of taking down as many US soldiers as they could with their last moments. _

_ In the space of thought, cold fear started to creep into Dean's periphery, but when he saw the same distant, terrified look dawning in Marshall's eyes, he snapped together and slammed Marshall on the back instead. _

_ "Stay with me, Marsh! We'll get out of this."  _

_ But his friend was frozen, whites of his eyes growing to saucers. _

_ "Marshall!" Dean yelled and the urgency in his voice was enough. Marshall came back to the moment. They looked at each other for a moment before Dean inched to the window, nothing more than a glassless square hole in the stone wall. Dean took a quick survey of the situation outside. Everything in the immediate vicinity appear vacant. He wondered if they'd lost the shooters in the dash for cover. _

_ "There," came Marshall's voice behind him and Dean saw a road. They ducked back down beneath the window. "If we get through there, we can get out of the city, maybe run into some of our guys. The map says those streets should be clear."  _

_ It was a good plan. The right plan. Dean laughed with relief. "You're going to make one hell of a geography teacher someday."  _

_ He took just a moment - one moment - to compose himself. _

_ "Let's move," he opened his mouth to say, before the explosion tore through his ear drums and shook the ground beneath them. _

_ All Dean could see was the vague outline of Marshall, mouth open, screaming something at him, but the mind numbing ring of deafness drowned him out. Foundation destroyed, the building started to topple in on itself. Marshall was still screaming, but Dean couldn't make his body move. They had to get out of there, but he couldn’t move, damn it! He couldn’t move!  _

_ The sudden jam of Marshall's palms into Dean's body took all of his air away. It didn't matter because the oxygen in the room turned hellish with dust and debris. The force of Marshall's heave launched Dean back and partially out of the building before it all came down. A final cacophony of scraping stone and cracking wood swelled before everything went silent.  _

_ Grey. Then black. _

_ A hand on his ankle. Dean could feel the curl of fingertips and the weak dig of nails on his calf until the movement stilled. Pain rushed in from all sides, so much that Dean lost consciousness for a moment, maybe longer.  _

_ When he came to, he became aware of the weight on his body, crushing, robbing him of all movement. It occurred to him that Marshall had still been in the building, which meant he likely remained somewhere at Dean's feet, completely enveloped by rubble. _

_ Panic hit and he tried to move again. He had to get Marshall unburied. They had to get out. Who knew what might be coming to check the ruins for survivors. But there was no response from his own body save for sharp shanks of white hot pain every time he struggled against the crush.  _

_ Sam's face popped into his head and Dean wondered who the Army would notify first: Sam or his father.  _

_ His throat was raw. Had he been yelling again? Was he yelling now? _

_ "NO! Cas, no!" The familiar echo of his own voice slammed against his ears and the desperate clamoring ache ignited again in his limbs. Cas' face swam blurrily into view above him.  "We can't leave him! Marshall is under there. Cas! Please! Please!" Over and over. _

_ When Dean had to pause for breath, the insistent sound of bullets punctured the space around him. They were under fire again. Dean knew they had to go, but he foolishly prayed for a miracle. _

_ "Please, Cas…" _


	12. The Overlook

Jolting awake as Dean so often did, he was greeted with an extra set of limbs like vines tangled around his torso. Cas had made no qualms about personal sleeping space after their night together. Dean had not anticipated sleeping over, but truth be told, he hadn't anticipated anything else that had happened after the funeral, either. 

 

Sunlight filtered through the broken, sagging blinds, splaying golden fingers across Cas' face. 

 

_ Whatever this is _ , Cas had said. What had it been? Ache and missing and poor judgment.  And now they had a camping trip ahead of them, the end of Dean's time here, the whole reason he'd come in the first place.

 

He'd been dreaming about Marshall again, about the end of him. It had been the end of a part of Dean too, dying with his friend under the grit of rubble and debris.

 

"You were restless last night," Cas commented, sleep-thick voice making Dean tense. Cas paused only a beat before releasing him from the mess of limbs and rolling upright to sit on the edge of the bed. 

 

Dean felt relief, then regret over the distance. Cas was good at pulling away. But Dean was good at pushing.

 

"Nightmares," Dean answered as casually as he could. 

 

"About Karbala?"

 

"Why do you say that?" Guilty shame twined thorny tentacles through Dean's chest. 

 

"You were muttering some things I remember hearing a long time ago. Things I've been trying to forget."

 

The dull, albeit familiar, ache settled back into the atmosphere around them and Dean knew the spell of last night's feverish connection had been broken. He mourned its loss, but was not surprised by it. 

 

Cas craned his head over his shoulder and looked at Dean, a careful longing in his eyes that disappeared with a blink. 

 

"I'll get my gear together and we can walk to your place.  We should get going. It's a full day's hike in." 

 

@@@@

 

Baby was not a rugged, 4-wheel drive vehicle, but Dean preferred to drive her over a rental, even if it did make him a little nervous to park her overnight at the head of a hiking trail in Middle of Nowhere, Kansas. Cas had reassured him that all roads leading to the trailhead were paved and well kept, and Cas seemed very happy when the decision had been made to take the Impala. 

 

Dean surveyed the empty gravel lot at the end of their quiet, forty minute drive. It was peaceful enough, well off the main road, and as Cas unloaded their equipment Dean felt reassured that she'd be safe and sound while they went on their little adventure. 

 

Cas handed Dean his old army rucksack. Slipping it on his back, a heavy resolve settled over him as it always did at the beginning of a haul. This was going to be a long day in and a long day out tomorrow. Already, his body was creaking around the joints, protesting even at the relatively light weight of his overnight gear. He was not the soldier he used to be.  Cas, on the other hand, moved with ease, as if the years hadn't touched him. Easily, Dean recalled the feel of that body against his, the perfect planes sliding over him, the sounds they'd made together. 

 

"You're wrong about staring," Cas' voice interrupted Dean's imaginings. "I find it very nice when you stare at me. I only wish you felt the same way." When Dean refocused, he realized that his eyes had been lingering over Cas' every movement. 

 

Before Dean could come up with a clever response, Cas shut the Impala's trunk and turned without hesitation to launch headfirst into their hike. All Dean could do was follow after him, willing the heat in his cheeks to subside. 

 

Two hours passed in relative silence save for the occasional warning called back over Cas' shoulder. Dean could tell he was being protective by taking the lead, clearing things off the trail, alerting him to potential pitfalls. He'd be ticked about it if he didn't need the help. His knee was flaring and the Advil he'd taken was already starting to wear off. 

 

"I need a break," Cas said and Dean knew it was a lie because the man's step was still full of elegant strength. But it was spoken in a way that broached no argument and Dean made himself comfortable on a nearby stump while Cas fell into some stretching exercises. Instead of risking another staring fit, Dean busied himself with a snack. 

 

Despite the fact that this whole trip was colored by an awkward morning-after, Dean still felt comfortable in the silence that grew between them. Back in the army they could go hours without talking, just being in each other's company. 

 

As he gnawed on his beef jerky and stared at his own feet, he thought about what Eloise had told him at the memorial service. Shouldn't this be easier? Shouldn't loving someone and forgiving them for something that happened so long ago be easy to do? As easy as simply saying  _ I still love you. I want to try again _ . Because Dean did. But he didn't think he could succeed and he didn't think he could survive another moment like Cas walking out of that hospital room, never to return. 

 

"We're making pretty good time," Cas said amiably. "How are you feeling?" 

 

"M'fine," Dean grunted as he got to his feet. "Let's keep going." 

 

@@@@

 

They stopped for lunch in a clearing. Cas laid down a light blanket even though Dean grumbled about not having time for a picnic. The more pain twisting his bones, the more inept Dean felt. That made him grouchy. But if anyone was equipped to deal with that, it was Cas and he took it in stride. Sitting down on one side of the blanket, he blithely set into his lunch until Dean finally flopped down next to him. 

 

"Do you remember when you were awarded your Legion of Merit?" Cas began and Dean was so surprised by the question that he couldn't even muster a grumpy reply. "You had a cane at the time. I remember you walking up to receive the ribbon. I'll bet it didn't take you long to get to a place where you didn't need that thing anymore. I remember thinking how angry you must have been to need it. How you must have thought it made you look weak. But it didn't. Not at all." 

 

"That was in 2009, Cas."

 

"I remember when it was," he murmured his reply, the beginnings of shame creeping into his voice. 

 

"I haven't seen you since 2005." 

 

It had been a confession and when Cas made eye contact with Dean again, it was clear that he wished he hadn't made it. "Well, I saw you. One of the guys called me to let me know you'd been selected for an award. And I'm sorry I didn't say anything until now. I had every intention of talking to you, congratulating you, apologizing to you. But there you were and I just couldn't." 

 

To think that Cas had been so close and said nothing hurt beyond measure. And yet Dean wondered how he would have received him back then, especially in the wake of his career ending injury. 

 

"Why?" 

 

"Why couldn't I speak to you or why did I go in the first place?" 

 

Dean didn't dignify that with a response. He wanted to know all of it and Cas was simply trying to buy himself some time or get out of answering one side. When it was clear Dean was not planning to help him out, Cas continued. 

 

"Dean," with reluctance. Clearly Cas wanted to get this out, but he was struggling with it. "Serving in the army used to be so easy for me. It was everything: my identity, my purpose. When I met you, I saw that in you too. I admired your sense of duty and I think--I think that you admired mine. But after Marshall died, I started questioning why I was even there. I didn't want to serve that machine anymore. It all felt so hollow to me." 

 

Pausing, Cas started to pack up his unfinished lunch, distracting himself with his hands. "So I didn't go back. When I saw you up there, having sacrificed yourself a second time as a soldier, I couldn't face you. I couldn't look at you and tell you that I had quit, turned tail. I couldn't see you look at me how I know you would have looked at me." 

 

"How was I going to look at you?" 

 

"Like I'd failed you again." 

 

As much as Dean wanted to protest, he knew Cas was right, so he remained silent. 

 

"And I went to see you because I missed you. I always missed you." 

 

Dean didn't know what to say. Perhaps it would have been the perfect space to say: I still love you. I want to try again. But the words didn't come and Cas gave him a doleful smile before reaching over and taking a few pieces of dried apple out of Dean's trail mix. 

 

With Dean's mind still spinning, they continued their hike. 

 

@@@@

 

By the time the sun was setting, they'd reached camp. Dean had had to rest many more times and as the hike wore on, they stopped making such good time. Cas insisted on doing the brunt of the work to set up their tents, leveling Dean with such a dominating look that all of his old training came back and he simply did as he was told, which was to  _ sit the hell down for ten seconds, goddamnit _ . 

 

Cas made short work of the little camp. Tents pitched, firewood gathered, small chairs set up next to a fire ring someone had built from rocks. 

 

"Do you think this is where it happened? Marshall's bear story?" Dean mused. 

 

Handing him a bottle of water, Cas surveyed the space for anything left to do before sitting next to Dean on the log he'd found. "I'd like to think so, just for symmetry. It's a nice thought, coming full circle like that." Only Cas would actually point something like that out and Dean scoffed a little fondly. "I packed in beer," Cas added with a laugh, apropos of nothing. 

 

"Thank god," Dean chimed. 

 

"Are you ready?" 

 

The sun was sinking so low in the sky that it had begun to throw oranges and pinks across the blue expanse above them. The overlook was a short walk through some trees, but since Dean had sat down, he actually needed help up. He did not relish receiving assistance, but Cas was quiet about it, simply getting Dean to his feet without needing to ask how. 

 

Madeline's ashes were packed in a simple tin and Cas held it to his chest as they walked. When they reached the spot, Cas stopped and together they stared. 

 

The overlook itself was not how Dean imagined it all these years. It was far less grand. Still, he saw how a young Marshall could have built it up in his head like the Grand Canyon. The drop over the edge was modest at best, but seeing the sun cast glancing warmth over the tops of the trees below quieted his breath.

 

It felt good to be in a place that had made Marshall so happy. Now that they were here though, Dean didn't know how to proceed. He looked to Cas, who did not seem inclined to release Madeline's ashes from his arms just yet. So Dean stayed quiet because he realized that this moment was more than just fulfilling a promise made over a decade ago. It was about more than himself and Marshall. Cas' grief was there in the lines of his face and the distance in his eyes. Instinctively, Dean pressed his shoulder to Cas' which seemed to finally give him the strength to step forward. 

 

"Madeline," he started. "I hope you find peace here." The rich tenor of his voice didn't waver, even if Dean could see the tremor in Cas' hands as he unfastened the lid of the tin. "I hope you find Marshall here." 

 

He stepped to the very edge of the overlook, so close that it made Dean's stomach lurch to watch him. With the ashes exposed, Cas lowered his head over them, staring down into the remains of the woman he'd cared for in her last years. The moment became suddenly so private that Dean felt like he was intruding. "I'm so sorry," he heard Cas say and that was when the man's voice broke. The crack in his composure pierced straight through Dean and exploded into an ache that settled hard in his chest. Dean stood, frozen, watching the scene unfold. 

 

After a moment of silence, Cas tipped the urn over and released Madeline's ashes into the expanse below. "I'm sorry I couldn't bring him home to you. I'm sorry I failed him. I'm so sorry." Once he started apologizing, he couldn't stop and his knees bent until he was perched on the balls of his feet, legs folded, resting his weight on his heels, head lowered on his folded arms, crying. "He was mine to protect. They all were. I'm so sorry." 

 

Dean could not stand the sight of Cas' shoulders shaking, or the strangled hitch of breath between his sobs. And yet he still could not move, feet rooted to the ground despite his desire to comfort Cas. There it all was before him, a heap of a man, years of guilt and regret laid bare. It had never occurred to Dean, how selfish he'd been to allow Cas to grieve alone. 

 

"Stop," Dean pleaded, spurred to action by a particularly wrenching keen as Cas rocked back to sit on the ground. "Cas, please. It wasn't your fault. Do you really think it was your fault?" Hand on Cas' back, Dean sat down beside him. 

 

Cas stilled immediately, not comforted, but embarrassed, as if he'd forgotten Dean was there at all. His cries grew quiet as he caught his breath, grasping for composure. "I should not have allowed you two to get separated from the group. I was your leader." As he explained, his voice came under his control again and Dean almost wished that it wouldn't. Cas didn't need to be in control all the time. "I failed you both and then--" Finally Cas raised his head, eyes wide, cheeks blotchy from the effort of sobbing. "I'll never apologize for pulling you out, Dean, but I'm sorry I didn't stay." 

 

"I'm sorry I didn't let you." Dean pressed his palm to Cas' cheek and held his gaze. 

 

Cas swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing, trying to keep emotion down, but despite his staunch effort, when he tried to speak again, his voice was fractured. "When we went back for him--Dean, when we unearthed him--he was so broken." Cas' jaw clenched from the strain of keeping his chin from trembling. 

 

Dean's face crumbled along with any lingering doubt that Marshall's death had hurt Cas as much as--if not more than--it had hurt him. He pulled Cas into a hug, wrapping his arms tight around him. If only he'd done this sooner, so many years sooner. Even though the pain of this moment carved clean through Dean's heart, it was the kind of fresh cut an old wound needed to heal properly. He held him while Cas wept. He held him until the tears stopped and Cas sunk against Dean's body, exhausted from emotion.

 

"Let's go back to camp," he murmured into Cas' hair. 

 

@@@@

 

The steady crackle of the campfire lulled its audience into a relaxed silence. Cas had managed to haul a six-pack of beer in his backpack and was already on his third, while Dean slowly sipped his second. 

 

Dean had taken it upon himself to build the fire and Cas, for once, allowed Dean to take care of him. Cas was still acting a little disconcerted over his own display of emotion earlier and Dean was working hard not to make it weird. He'd never seen Cas lose it like that, but ultimately, he'd needed to. They'd both needed it. 

 

But as the fire roared and the beers loosened their muscles, Cas sunk into the moment, drifting back to himself. They chatted about mundane things: the last time Dean saw Sam, how the Quran sales were going, life at the VA. 

 

As Dean was opening his last beer of the night, he sprayed himself with the foam as it erupted in his lap. "Sonofabitch!" He cried in surprise, clamoring to his feet, much to Cas' open amusement. The yeasty smell of beer wafted up into Dean's nose as it soaked into his shirt and jeans.

 

"Here," Cas called and tossed him a little hand towel he'd pulled from his backpack. 

 

Dean caught it and tried to clean up the majority of the mess. "Last one's…"

 

"...always the most shook up," Cas finished with a grin. Dean had to laugh too. They were camping, after all. It wasn't like he had anywhere presentable to be. 

 

When he settled back down, he examined the hand towel more closely. On the lower right corner of it, someone had hand-stitched 'Castiel.' Cas noticed Dean looking at it and he groaned a little. "One of the ladies I do yard work for--" he said by way of explanation. "I made the mistake of telling her my full name once. She liked it so much she stitched it onto a towel for me." 

 

Dean knew Cas didn't like his full name. No one who wanted to stay on his good side ever called him by it. And yet Cas had kept the towel, used it. 

 

"Castiel," Dean tried out loud. On one hand he could count the number of times he'd said that word. "Do you remember when we first met?" 

 

The night had fully surrounded them by this point, darkness kept at bay only by the rich flicker of the fire. The hot glow of burning wood cast shadows back into the black and painted them both in twisting light and shade. Dean watched as Cas recollected, noting the way the illumination highlighted his features with warmth. Finally, Cas nodded, but in such a way that begged Dean to tell the story anyway. 

 

"Sergeant Castiel Novak." That's how the commanding officer had introduced the squad's lead. Dean, having more gusto than sense had scoffed a little next to Marshall, muttering to himself. "Castiel? I said. Didn't think you'd hear, but you did." 

 

Cas' smile widened as he listened. 

 

"So you wheeled on me, Cas and I shit you not, I nearly pissed myself." Dean continued, spurred on by the sound of Cas' laughter. "You walked over to me and got real close to my face. I swear, I saw Marshall out of the corner of my eye and he looked like he was going to see a man get kicked out of the army that day. Your face…" Dean shook his head at the memory and heat rose to his cheeks. "...you were so fucking gorgeous." 

 

That quelled Cas' laughter ever so slightly, the sound going breathy, but still full of mirth. 

 

"Anyway, you got up in my space and you said, so quiet I don't know if anyone else heard you. You said:  _ Winchester, is it? Don't fool yourself. I will remember this. And for the record, I go by Cas. But Cas or Castiel, you don't have to worry about it, because the only thing you'll be calling me is 'Sir, yes sir.' _ "

 

They both chuckled over that for a little while, Dean taking sips from what was left of his spilled beer. It felt good to laugh with Cas. When they both fell quiet again, Dean lingered on the memory, rolling it over in his mind. 

 

"I think that's when I knew I was really in trouble," Dean murmured. 

 

"Of course you were in trouble, you pissed off a superior officer on the first day," Cas replied, missing what Dean was really saying.

"No--" Dean corrected and averted his eyes, embarrassment crawling up his neck. "I mean that's when I knew--" he interrupted the confession to bring the beer to his mouth again. He really didn't feel like saying it out loud, even years later. 

 

Cas watched him carefully and Dean shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny. "When you knew you were going to fall madly in love with me," Cas finished Dean's thought with a dramatic lilt to his voice, keeping with the humorous mood. But it was clear that he was trying to cloak the bold venture in a quip, a guarded smirk that didn't quite reach hopeful eyes. 

 

Dean nodded. 

 

The power and humor dissolved from Cas' voice, dipping to a low and careful rumble. "And were you right?"

 

Did Cas really not know the answer to that? Had he never told him? 

 

"I'm always right, Cas."

 

Silence. But Dean found the courage to continue anyway because he owed this to Cas and he owed it to himself. "I still love you." But he could not yet add on: I want to try again. 

 

"I still love you too," Cas returned. And there they sat, both uncertain of where to go with that. The fire was dying, consuming itself down to embers. The lingering, electric orange coils of heat squirmed like so many snakes writhing over the smoldering, blackened wood. Neither moved to put another log on the pile as it was getting late and they had a long walk home tomorrow. 

 

"So what are your plans when you get back to Wichita on Friday?" Cas hazarded. The confession of their mutual love for one another hadn't fundamentally changed anything. They were both world weary enough to understand that still being in love was not the only thing needed to make it work.

 

Dean was set to drive home the day after tomorrow, back to his life, just in time for the weekend and then work on Monday. Cas would go on with his life here, perhaps, or he would move on. Dean wondered if he would ever deal with his pain and guilt over Marshall's death. He wondered if maybe it was a mistake to let him try it on his own again. He didn't want to leave. 

 

"No plans, really." He licked his lips, tasting the last remnants of beer on them.  

 

"You could stay the weekend," Cas said softly. "Read Marshall's letters. Help me go through Madeline's things." 

 

No hesitation, Dean sat up a little straighter, latching onto the invitation. "Okay. I'll--" 

 

But Cas cut him off. "Don't extend your stay at the motel." 

 

Their gazes remained locked as the final light from the fire gave out and threw them into the kind of pitch dark that could only be found far away from civilization's light shadow. Dean's eyes hadn't adjusted to the darkness yet, but he could hear Cas getting up to approach him. The crunch of dried leaves beneath Cas' feet told Dean exactly where he was and soon enough, he could feel the warmth of a gentle hand clasping for his own and pulling him to stand. 

 

The pad of Cas' thumb ghosted over Dean's chin, seeking his lower lip. When he found it, he pressed into the plush, yielding flesh before gliding his hand up Dean's jaw line and into his hair. 

 

"Okay," Dean hummed before their mouths connected and the word was lost to a languid kiss. 

 

It seemed a shame, but they’d hauled an extra tent all the way up here for nothing.


	13. Sorting It Out

Madeline's home, a two-story farmhouse with a covered wrap-around porch, was nestled back from the road amidst other modest Craftsmans and bungalows. The yard was well kept, no doubt thanks to Cas' diligent work. It also looked to be freshly painted, white with black shutters. They passed a For Sale sign out front and Dean wondered if Cas and Madeline hadn't been gussying the place up for its inevitable exchange of hands.  

 

The house was well within walking distance of Cas' apartment, but Friday morning had found Dean so sore from the hiking trip that the two of them had driven over instead of walking. The car would come in handy anyway, hauling various items to the Goodwill.  

 

Cas had already done a fair amount of work on his own since Madeline's passing, so when he gave Dean the tour, they had to maneuver around box after box. It cast a hollowed out pallor over what clearly used to be a warm and inviting place. Each room was small; narrow hallways, tight spaces. But it felt cozy instead of cramped, especially with so many windows everywhere. The amount of light that bent and cut through the small spaces was rather stunning and Dean looked forward to being there at sunset to see the show Marshall used to describe to him whenever they experienced the expansive sunsets of the desert. 

 

"This was Marshall's room," Cas noted. "I keep the box of letters in here, if you'd like to read them?" 

 

Mr. T stared hard at Dean from an A-Team poster, arms crossed over his chest, seriously intimidating. Dean burst into laughter at the sight. "I wonder where he hid all of his New Kids on the Block posters." Idly, he ran his fingers over some trophies on the dresser. Madeline hadn't touched this room in the years after Marshall's death.

 

"I'm saving this room for last," Cas said. "I know it's stupid, but--"

 

"It's not stupid," Dean interrupted. "I'm glad I got to see it." Even though he knew Cas hadn't been saving it for him, Dean was grateful to find himself in this time capsule. It wasn't the entirety of the man they'd lost, but it was a part Dean hadn't had the chance to experience. 

 

Sliding up behind him, Cas put his arms around Dean's waist and leaned his chin on his shoulder. Dean welcomed it with an easing of tense muscles. It was getting easier and easier each time Cas reached out to him. Having opened that door, Dean didn't have the desire to close it, even if he didn't know how it all would end. 

 

"I'll read a few letters before we get started," Dean exhaled. He wasn't quite ready yet, but the time had come anyway. 

 

@@@@

 

They worked through the day, sorting, packing, loading. Dean learned that he and Madeline shared similar taste in music and an affinity for pie. She had boxes upon boxes of pie recipes written in her own hand that Cas told Dean he could keep. 

 

"If you promise to make them for me," Cas chided. But the joke was weighted, exploratory. It spoke of a future and the promise in those words made Dean feel light. 

 

Despite the wistful nature of their task, sorting the life of a wonderful woman into boxes and bags, Dean didn't feel sad. Somber, perhaps, but there was joy in Cas' retelling of her stories and joy in spending time with him. 

 

"You were happy here," Dean said once in the middle of a rousing rendition of the time Madeline asked him to fill her entire front yard with flowers planted beautifully in old toilets he'd told her about at the second-hand store. 

 

The statement stopped Cas, holding a stack of old IRS documents. They were in the third bedroom, converted to an office long ago. He stood there, searching for an answer among the disorganized paperwork. "Sometimes," he admitted. "Most of the time I was just high on something, Dean." 

 

"Because of Marshall." They needed to do this. Dean was going to dig in his heels this time, but he was going to do it gently because he couldn't be angry at Cas anymore. "Because of me." 

 

Cas' mouth twisted down at the corners, pursing with discomfort as he sat down on the bench of the window seat. He lowered the stack of papers into his lap. The late afternoon sun from outside cast a glow around him, throwing his face into shadow. "Because of my own choices regarding how to deal with you and Marshall, yes." 

 

"I never thanked you for saving my life." 

 

The atmosphere in the room tightened, Cas had a way of altering the mood of a space with his own. "Dean--" Cas rubbed his hand over his face, not wanting to do this. "I don't need you to thank me for that. It's ridiculous to even suggest it." 

 

Dean shook his head. "This part isn't for you. Not really. So just listen. All right?" 

 

Cas was quiet. 

 

"I hated you in that hospital. I wanted you to get out and never come back." Resting his weight against the desk, Dean folded his arms over his chest and stared down the length of his legs to his feet. "And then when you did? I hated you for that too." 

 

Dean heard a shift of discomfort from Cas, but he kept going. "I felt like it was my fault he died. He shoved me out of the way because I was frozen. I just fucking stood there, Cas. If he had just run, saved himself, he would be here and not me."

 

"That's not--" Cas started, but Dean held up his hand to stop him.

 

"I hated that you didn't just leave me there to die with him because that's what I deserved. I think that--shit--I think part of me still believes that. But hearing you apologize to Madeline like that? Hearing you blame yourself for Marshall?" Dean clenched his jaw, trying to keep emotion out of his voice because he didn't want some sob-fest again, he just wanted his words out there. "It's no one's fucking fault, Cas. Not mine. And sure as hell not yours." 

 

He got to his feet with a little effort and moved to stand in front of Cas who simply leaned forward into him, cheek pressed to Dean's stomach, hands hooked around to the backs of his thighs. Dean smoothed his hand through Cas' hair. 

 

"Those letters I read. He had so many plans after he got home. And here I've been, just getting by all these years. And you? We've helped people, sure. But we've given fuck all to ourselves." Dean sighed.  "He didn't want that for us." 

 

Cas' fingers curled against Dean's legs, drawing him closer.

 

"Anyway," Dean continued. "This part is for you, okay? Thank you. For saving my life. And thank you for taking care of Madeline and everyone else who has ever crossed your path. But I think--" The very center of Dean gave a tremor, but he forced it still. "I think I'd like to try taking care of you now. Because you need it and you deserve it. And I love you. And I want us to try again…" 

 

Dean was already starting to ramble when the magnitude of his words hit him. Fear begin to rise instinctively, but it scattered into nothing when he felt Cas' hands crawl up the front of his chest, clawing him downward until Dean was forced to kneel before him. It was easy to ignore his aching knee, finding himself face to face with Cas who was simply nodding fervently. A flood of relief crashed into him and Dean actually laughed, breathy and disbelieving. "Yeah?" he mimicked Cas' nodding. 

 

"Yeah," Cas said. 

 

The tax returns tumbled to the ground, forgotten.


	14. Epilogue

The '78 Lincoln Continental Mark V parked outside of Cas' apartment building was filled to its substantial capacity with his belongings. Just last weekend, Dean had helped him get a good deal on it, talking the salesman down from a price Dean had called "highway robbery." Later, Dean bragged that the starting price had been a good one, but well-placed dramatics never hurt anyone in the negotiation process. 

 

Four months after Madeline's passing saw the sale of her house which had been left to Cas. It wouldn't have felt right to live there, not with his new resolve to push forward with his life. Besides, there wasn't a VA in Holton for Dean to work at. Cas could run his internet sales from anywhere if he chose to continue with that. 

 

The last thing to be loaded into the car was Marshall's box of letters. Dean had spent the past months reading them every weekend when he came to visit Cas. They curled up on the ratty old couch together, sipping coffee in the morning, Cas quiet while Dean read to himself. Sometimes Cas smoked a joint, but it wasn't to lose himself anymore and each weekend it was less and less. 

 

They could sit in sadness together now, and anger. It wasn't perfect, but it was good. So good. 

 

Cas had spent the last couple of weeks wrapping up loose ends and Dean had helped connect people with social services in the area so they could get the assistance they needed after Cas was gone. He'd asked Cas to move in with him a month after the sale of Madeline's home. Nearly half a year's worth of weekends together had convinced him they could make it work and they'd wasted enough time already. Besides, even Dean was tired of driving from Wichita to Holton twice a week. 

 

Sitting behind the comically large steering wheel of his car, Cas pulled out one of Marshall's letters. It was one of his own personal favorites, kept near the top of the box. 

 

_ Mom, _

 

_ I've been missing Ben. It's midnight here and I can't sleep. We've got a long haul tomorrow. Dean just told me to turn my damn flashlight off, but don't worry, I told him to stuff it.  _

 

_ The ipod came. I'm the most popular guy at camp this week, so thanks. I've only let Dean borrow it though. Don't worry, it was for a good cause. He called it their first date. He had it all planned out. I helped him make a playlist and everything. Sappy, right? You're rolling your eyes right now, aren't you? But they're so good together and I just keep thinking that if anything good comes out of war, it's stuff like this. The people we meet, the people we help. I can't wait for you to meet them.  _

 

_ It's stupid to write. It's mushy. But I know you secretly love mushy. I hope those two make it together. Scratch that. I'm sure they will.  _

 

_ Tell Ben I love him.  _

 

_ Love you, _

_ Marsh _

**Author's Note:**

> find me on Tumblr at [ricketyjukeboxer](http://ricketyjukeboxer.tumblr.com)


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